


quarantine drabbles

by Abradystrix



Series: quarantine drabbles [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 20,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abradystrix/pseuds/Abradystrix
Summary: a series of semi-daily drabbles posted to tumblr in the great lockdown/self-isolation of spring 2020rated 'M' for chapter 9 - all others are 'GA'.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: quarantine drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704742
Comments: 19
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a quiet evening in the Granger-Weasley household. They’re sitting on the sofa with the wireless on, Ron flipping idly through the pages of an old Quidditch almanac while Hermione pores over Hugo’s most recent letter. A purple blanket lies over them, while Crookshanks purrs from Hermione’s lap. The old clock on the mantelpiece softly chimes nine, and Ron turns to look at her.

‘Glass of Firewhisky for the Minister?’

‘Thought you’d never ask. It’s been a long week.’

He extricates himself from the blankets and walks to the kitchen, taking a moment to gaze softly over his shoulder at his wife. Her hair is twisted back into a messy knot, her wand holding it in place, and she smiles as she reads her son’s words. Hugo has inherited his mother’s passion for detailed writing, while Rose has taken after Ron in her animated but infrequent updates.

Padding softly in his woolly socks, Ron makes his way to the kitchen with Crookshanks hot on his heels in search of an evening snack. He leans over and drops a few treats into Crookshanks’ bowl. Straightening up, Ron catches sight of his reflection in the window. His hair has faded slightly with age, his eyes have creased from the years of happiness, but as he looks at himself, he doesn’t see anything he would change. He smiles softly and turns away to reach for the bottle of oak-aged Ogden’s, and pours a generous pair of measures into two old crystal glasses.

With a sudden screech, and an almighty crash, a pale ball of feathers and fluff smashes into the kitchen window. The whisky bottle makes a terrific sound as it falls to the ground and shatters.

‘Hermione, that damn owl!’

‘What’s he done now?’

‘He’s done a bloody Errol, that’s what.’

With one hand Ron casts a charm to clear up the mess, and with the other he opens the window and gently grabs Miggs, the family barn owl, by the scruff of his neck. Ron notes the heavy envelope attached to the owl’s leg, and prises it away as Miggs hoots balefully. Smoothing his feathers, Ron moves him over to the counter and lays down an owl treat. He tucks the envelope between his teeth, muttering half-heartedly at the owl, now devouring his treat with gusto. Ron grabs the glasses and makes his way back to the living room.

‘Is he ok?’ Hermione asks, her eyes wide with concern. Ron leans over her and she pulls the envelope from his teeth. He sits back with a sigh.

‘Miggs? Oh he’s fine. The bottle of Ogden’s from the Romanian delegation? Not so much.’ He takes a generous sip of the whisky to calm his nerves, as Hermione opens her envelope, muttering ‘Westminster’ to nobody in particular.

He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of the whisky rush through him. Hermione has tucked her feet back under his thighs, and all is peaceful, at least for a moment.

‘Oh for Merlin’s sake!’ Hermione sits straight up, Hugo’s letter falling to the floor.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the PM.’

‘That —’ Miggs shrieks loudly from the kitchen, drowning out Ron’s word of choice.

‘Yes, him. Turns out the thing he thought he had under control was far from under control and now…’ She reads on, brow furrowed. ‘Britain is on lockdown and we suggest that you contact your people… oh for goodness’ sake ‘your people’, I’ve bloody told him about saying that… and relay these instructions post haste.’

‘What instructions?’

‘Lockdown. Quarantine, effectively. Stops the virus spreading.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘He doesn’t know that it won’t affect the magical population. But I’d best show solidarity.’

Ron sighs as Hermione stands up and heads for her home office and private Floo. She pauses to drain her glass, wincing only slightly. Ron grins. He likes it when she gets flustered and determined like this.

‘Oh don’t, Ron, it’s always wretched dealing with him.’

‘I know love. This quarantine though - does it mean I’ll be seeing more of you?’ He raises his eyebrows suggestively. Hermione thinks for a moment, her cheeks flushed.

‘I suppose it could, yes.’ She turns to leave the room, but unless Ron is very much mistaken, she casts the briefest of winks his way before leaving the room.

Brilliant.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s after eleven by the time Hermione clambers into their bed. Ron is half-asleep, the candles burning low, and as she pulls the heavy yellow duvet over, he instinctively moves towards her, to press his chest into her back. She sighs as his arms wrap round her and she twists her fingers in his.

‘Long call?’ He mumbles, burying his face in her hair. It smells comfortingly of lavender and he breathes it in. ‘Your feet are bloody cold.’

‘Ridiculously long. I had to Floo in the Undersecretary for Wizarding Health and the top Healer at St Mungo’s and the PM still refused to listen. Awful, wretched man, honestly. We’re announcing the solidarity measures first thing tomorrow in the Prophet and a Ministry press call.’

‘Whisky in your morning cuppa, then.’

‘I’m sorely tempted.’ Hermione turns and reaches over Ron for the Deluminator, resting on his bedside table, atop a dog-eared copy of an old Muggle mystery and a pair of reading glasses he claims not to need. She clicks the residual lamplight into darkness, and lies back, staring at the ceiling and drawing Ron’s arm around her.

‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ He asks, looking down at her.

‘No – it’s ok. I’ll be heading out early. 6am.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Do you need me to go and see your parents?’

‘No, I spoke to them on the phone just there. They’re okay for now. Thank you though.’ She squeezes his hand gently.

They lie in silence for a while.

‘Quarantine,’ he says. ‘Feels like when Rose and Hugo both caught dragon pox.’

‘Oh, that was awful,’ she moans, cringing into his shoulder. ‘Then James and Albus and Lily all caught it…’

‘I maintain they had it first! James was looking peaky the weekend before. And Albus and Rose kept trying to bite each other…’

‘Regardless. Four weeks of whinging Granger-Weasleys.’

‘To be fair, Hugo was barely talking at that point. It was Rose who was more…’

‘Vocal? Direct? Inquisitive?’ Hermione asks drily.

‘Yes. Those.’

They grin at one another in the moonlight sneaking through their bedroom curtains. Ron rests his forehead on Hermione’s, breathing slowly. Before long they have both drifted off to sleep.

At 5.45am, Hermione opens her eyes with a groan, already dreading the day ahead. She smiles as she notices the cup of tea on her bedside, alongside a tiny bottle of whisky, marked ‘just in case’. She can hear Ron whistling from the shower.

Taking a sip of tea, she decides to go and join him.


	3. Chapter 3

‘Alright mate!’

Ron grins at Harry on the screen of the Muggle phone Hermione has kitted him out with. He’s standing in the kitchen, over the stove, but he turns the pan down to a simmer and leans back on the worktop to chat with his best friend.

‘Alright? Love the apron!’ Harry chides gently. Ron gestures down to the old red apron that Harry gave him many Christmases ago, as a present for moving out of Grimmauld Place. A golden crown is embroidered on the chest. Ron laughs.

‘Still got it, mate. It’s saved me many a shirt, I’ll have you know.’

‘I don’t doubt it! Hermione back from this Prophet meeting yet?’

‘Not yet. Hence the dinner - wanted to do something nice. It’s been a bit of a week.’

‘Ginny’s there too, I think. She’s livid that the Quidditch season might be impacted.’

Ron groans.

‘Aren’t we all. I think even Hermione’s a little cross, but she’s in full Minister mode so she won’t admit it. I think the PM is giving her all kinds of headaches right now.’

‘That fuckwit?’

‘Yep. She had a screaming argument with her aunt about voting for him at Christmas. It was quite a sight. Don’t blame her though - by the sounds of it, he’s even more of a fuckwit than we all assumed.’

‘I bet my Uncle would have voted for him.’ Harry mutters darkly. ‘Tells you all you need to know. What are you cooking anyway?’

‘Pasta vongole. She loves clams. Managed to get some fresh yesterday before the announcement.’

‘Can I Floo by?’

‘Sorry mate, no clams for you. Crookshanks already stole one.’

‘You’re a tease.’

‘You love it. Anyway, surely Ginny’s got you on some kind of health kick?’

‘I think seafood would be ok… probably. Don’t tell her, but I did send the kids some Honeydukes last week.’

‘Harry Potter. That’s my sister you’re dealing with. Do you have a death wish?’

‘I know. Voldemort hath no fury like a Weasley on a sugar detox, let me tell you.’

Ron laughs, turning to stir the pasta.

‘Might have cheered him up to be honest, a bit of a chocolate binge.’

‘Worst bit about this lockdown, Ron - left my emergency stash at the office.’

‘Oh no, I can see the headlines now! The Boy Who Starved.’ 

Now Harry’s laughing.

‘You know, it would take people’s minds off it all. You’ve inspired me - pasta it is.’ Harry starts rummaging in his cupboards. Ron hears the rush of the living room Floo.

‘Got to run mate,’ he waves at the tiny screen, ‘talk tomorrow?’

‘Oh I think that’s likely,’ Harry grins. They say their goodbyes as Hermione walks into the kitchen, collapsing into a dining chair with a groan, her eyes closed tight.

Ron walks over to kiss her on the forehead.

‘Good day?’

‘Definitely, resolutely not. Do I smell clams though?’ Her eyes open and she quirks an eyebrow.

‘You do indeed.’

‘You’re a bloody saint, Ron Weasley.’

‘I know. And you’ve not seen dessert yet.’

‘It’s not one of Ginny’s sugar-free cakes is it?’

‘Bloody hell, no. Guess again.’

‘Chocolate mousse?’ She asks, hopefully. He nods.

She pulls him down to her and gives Ron what can only be described as a thorough and heartfelt snog. He grins as she pulls back.

‘You know, I’m surprised how mature we’ve become,’ she says thoughtfully, watching him drain the pasta, and summoning a glass of white wine. ‘I really thought you were going to make a sex joke there.’

‘You sound disappointed,’ he remarks, as he places the pasta into some worn blue bowls.

‘Maybe I am,’ she says loftily, spooning some into her mouth. Ron’s ears turn red, and he feels her feet nudge his leg under the table.

‘I wouldn’t want to disappoint the Minister,’ he says calmly, helping himself to more wine.

In retrospect, he’s surprised they even manage to finish their pasta before giving in.

They don’t end up eating dessert until much later, summoning it to the bedroom like they used to before they were married, perched on pillows in rumpled sheets. They clink their spoons together, toasting Merlin knows what. They go to sleep facing one another, hands entwined, like they did after the war. Hermione counts the freckles on his nose as he sleeps, and drifts off, the stress from her day forgotten in a haze of love and Ron.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hermione –_

_Hopefully Miggs finds you before you end up getting that depressing soup from the Ministry canteen again. He wasn’t sure about carting this sandwich all the way from our house, but I bribed him with a treat so he should be ok. I may have promised him that you’d give him another one when he arrived. Anyway, I found some of the pickle you like in the pantry, and we still have had some of that cheddar we got last weekend at the market. (I may have made a test sandwich, for quality control)._

_Remember if the PM gives you grief today, he looks like either end of a Blast-Ended Skrewt and you’re brilliant. I’ve also chucked in a couple of Puking Pastilles if you want to slip him one._

_Love you._

_Ron_

~

Ron,

Ethel handed me the sandwich just as I was on my way out to get my ‘depressing’ soup. 

It did make me smile. Thank you. Thankfully, the Blast-Ended Skrewt is keeping a low profile today. The goblins - less so. I’ll explain when I get home.

I just bumped into your sister, and she asked if you left your Canons scarf in their house this morning after your morning fly. I said that really couldn’t be possible, as we are firmly observing Muggle lockdown rules as an act of solidarity.

Regardless, I now have your scarf.

I’ll see you soon.

Love, Hermione x

~

_Hermione –_

_Funniest thing - Harry insisted that I leave it for him last time I was over! Poor bugger misses me when I’m not around you see, and the scarf comforts him. I am, of course, entirely compliant with lockdown. (Does flying count? Asking for Harry.)_

_R x_

~

Ron,

Please tell ‘Harry’ that flying very much counts, particularly when he’s meant to be staying in, keeping an eye on Crookshanks, owling the kids, and working on his new product line for the shop, which he’s been banging on about ‘not having time to do’ for the last six months.

Yours, Hermione x

~

_Hermione -_

_He says fine._

_R x_

_PS: Come home soon, I’ve made mousse again._


	5. Chapter 5

It has been eight hours since Hermione Granger-Weasley, Minister for Magic, consumed her cheese and pickle sandwich – she ate it hastily, between a meeting with the Gringotts Board of Governors and a conference with the St Mungo’s medi-witches, washed down with a cup of tea that had cooled entirely by the time she got round to drinking it. 

A tension headache has formed behind her eyes and as she sets foot into her office Floo, she wants nothing more than a hot bath and a hefty dose of Calming Draught.

As she emerges into the familiarity of her own living room, she brushes the soot from her travelling cloak and smiles at Crookshanks who tumbles through to greet her.

‘Hello, my good boy,’ she says softly, scratching behind his ears. Straightening up, she realises she can hear not one, but two voices from the kitchen. She recognises her brother-in-law’s laugh, and groans inwardly. She loves her family, she really does, but her social batteries have been truly exhausted. Girding herself for small talk, she steps into the kitchen with a somewhat forced smile on her face.

‘Evening, Minister,’ says George, a bottle of Butterbeer on the kitchen table in front of him. Pages of parchment are strewn across the table, full of calculations, rough spreadsheets and some intriguing anatomical drawings, presumably outlining the impact of some new tricks and potions for Wheezes.

‘Hi George.’

Ron stands up to greet her, kissing her gently on the mouth.

‘Hi love,’ he says, smiling. She smiles back.

‘Gross.’ George chides. 

Hermione rolls her eyes and makes her way to the fridge, pouring herself a Gillywater. She closes her eyes briefly, enjoying the dry bite of the drink. She leans back against the counter and raises an eyebrow at her husband and his brother.

‘What? We’re complying! We read your statement in the evening Prophet - _Wizards are safe to Floo to one another’s homes, provided they haven’t been in Muggle populations for the last 7 days, and do not venture outside of the house._ ’

‘And I’m Diagon Alley only!’ George proclaims proudly, finishing the last of his Butterbeer. ‘It’s all theoretical though isn’t it? Solidarity and all that. Wizards will be fine.’

Ron shakes his head imperceptibly at his brother in warning, as Hermione’s eyes flash.

‘Some might say, _George_ , that it’s a small step between wizards will be fine and wizards will be first, and that as a Ministry we must operate in a way that shows solidarity and support to our Muggle neighbours, allies and friends…’

George has the decency to look a little abashed.

‘Of course, yep, duly noted.’

‘I’m going to go for a bath,’ she says, draining her glass. She pauses, guilt creeping up on her. ‘George, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, it’s just been…’

‘Total shite?’ He offers, with a conciliatory smile.

‘Yes. Total shite.’ She smiles at him, and Ron’s shoulders visibly relax. Hermione heads for the door, but before she crosses into the hallway, she turns back to them.

‘What are you discussing anyway?’

‘Oh, your lovely husband has just offered to set up our temporary owl delivery service from your attic, while we wait for the London restrictions to be lifted.’ 

George’s tone is cheery, but Ron’s shaking head is far from imperceptible now.

‘He’s done what now?’ 

If she’d seemed cross before, the dangerous flash across her brow is enough to get George up on his feet and putting his jacket on within seconds.

‘Think that’s my cue to leave. Thanks for the Butterbeer little brother.’ He pats Ron’s shoulder as he exits, giving Hermione a wide berth as he makes for the fireplace.

‘Bye, Hermione.’ 

Her narrowed eyes follow him all the way to the Floo.

She turns to Ron, takes a deep breath and - surprisingly - pauses. The kitchen clock ticks in the background. Ron looks at her expectantly, cringing a little.

‘Do you know what? Fine. Owls it is.’

‘Hang on, what? Just like that? You’re not going to go off on one?’

‘I think I’m a bit beyond that to be honest.’ She collapses into the chair beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her close.

‘Was it the cheese sandwich?’ She laughs.

‘That didn’t hurt. Thank you, by the way.’

‘You’re welcome. Would chocolate mousse in the bath help?’ She smiles up at him, eyes tired.

‘It would.’ She gets up again and heads for the bathroom.

‘They’re well-trained owls you know, very bright…’

‘Ron.’

‘Okay, pushing it, got you.’

She smiles wryly as she makes her way up the stairs. He really is off the scale sometimes.

She wouldn’t change a thing.

Except maybe the owls.


	6. Chapter 6

When Hermione wakes up around 3am, she’s surprised to find that Ron isn’t in bed with her. The duvet is rumpled on his side of the bed – he’s clearly been there recently – but he’s most certainly not here now.

Even after all this time, she feels a thrill of instant anxiety and panic at his absence. It’s been years since his last Auror mission, and even longer since the war, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins is as fresh as it was back in the tent.

Breathing deeply, she reasons with herself. He can’t have gone far, and the wards on the house are iron-clad. She listens closely, ignoring the thrumming in her ears, and hears a creak from downstairs.

The living room.

Quietly, she grabs her dressing gown and wand, and makes her way down the old staircase. She sees warm candlelight emitting from underneath the living room door, and the sight of it relaxes her somewhat. She turns the handle quietly and breathes an audible sigh of relief at the sight of her husband sat on the sofa, his hair rumpled and the old Canons t-shirt that he sleeps in glowing deep orange in the candle light. He doesn’t notice her for a moment and with a pang, she recognises the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead and the faraway look in his eye.

‘Nightmare?’

He starts at the sound of her soft voice. He shakes his head.

'No, no! Just er… thirsty.’

She gazes pointedly at the empty table in front of him.

'I hadn’t gotten the water yet,’ he adds, sheepishly.

'Why don’t I go and get it?’ Her voice is gentle.

'Honestly, love, it’s fine, I didn’t want to wake you.’ He’s shaky on his feet as he makes to stand up, and she rushes to sit down beside him, pulling him back to the sofa.

'It was a nightmare.’ She says simply, her hand on his knee. He nods, swallowing hard. She summons two glasses and casts a quick Aguamenti. He takes a grateful sip.

'Hermione…’

'Yes?’

'I know it’s odd but - could you conjure some of your flames?’

'Of course.’ She quickly transfigures her glass into a jam jar, and soon a bluebell flame crackles lazily before them. Ron stares at it, intently, his brow furrowed.

’M'sorry. I really didn’t mean to wake you up. I know you’ve got a lot on.’

'It’s really fine. I woke up anyway, and I missed you. I’d rather be here. I’d always rather be here, with you.’

'With a 40 year old wimp?’

'You’re no wimp, Ron.’

'It feels like it. You’d think, 22 years later, I’d be a bit better at dealing with these. They don’t happen much, but when they do… It just felt so bloody real, Hermione.’

'Fred?’

'Yeah. And you. The Manor. Only – this time the kids were there.’

'Oh, Ron.’

'It was fucking horrible.’

She doesn’t say anything about his cursing. She just lays her head on his shoulder and pulls him close.

'Our children are safe. They’re at Hogwarts eating their weight in Chocolate Frogs and worrying about Quidditch and Charms. They’re safe because of what we did. They’re safe because you’re a wonderful dad, Ron.’

He hugs her back, saying nothing, but she knows her words have helped, she feels the slump of his shoulders as some of the tension leaves.

’D'you ever wonder what would have happened if things had gone differently? What if we hadn’t made it? What if something had gone wrong?’

'You’re starting to sound like me, Ron.’

'I’m just so bloody happy with my life right now, you know that, right? I’m so proud of you, and of us, and of the kids. I think this whole lockdown thing has just gotten to me a bit.’ She rubs his knee, listening to rumble of his voice.

He pauses.

'Maybe… maybe I just miss Harry.’

She laughs gently, poking him in the ribs.

'That’s definitely it. Eyes as green as a fresh pickled toad, and all that.’ She buries her face into his shoulder as they both laugh.

'Why don’t we owl the kids tomorrow?’ She suggests, after a moment.

'That’d be brilliant. I want to know how Rose’s Quidditch practice is going… and hear about Hugo’s latest Herbology mishaps.’

'They’re not mishaps Ron, they’re just…’

'Creative learning, I know.’

They sit in silence for a few moments.

'I’m happy too,’ Hermione says, 'Even in the current circumstances of Muggle lockdown mayhem. I hope you know that. ’

'I do.’

'Good. Do you want me to fetch some Dreamless Sleep?’ He hesitates, looking into her eyes for a long moment.

'I think I’m okay now.’

They take the flames back upstairs with them, and fall asleep in the bluebell glow.


	7. Chapter 7

Dear Hugo,

Thank you so much for your last letter. It made me smile. **[And cry]** Your father thinks he is very funny. **[I am]** I don’t know why I agreed to write this letter with him [my good looks]. Anyway! We are really proud of you **[that bit’s very true mate]** and I’m glad that you sorted out the Snargaluff Pod incident with Neville. **[Your Uncle George actually wants to talk to you about an idea he’s had]** No, no he doesn’t. The important thing is that you’ve learned a lot about how to handle the Pods now **[and that you hit that obnoxious Slytherin kid in the – what your Mum said].**

We’re doing well in lockdown but I have to be in the Ministry most days **[she hates it]**. I don’t _hate_ it - it’s a little stressful. **[She hates it]** Your father is cooking a lot **[she loves it]**. Ron stop writing she, I’m not the cat’s mother. **[Righto. You are Hugo’s mother though.]** We’re still hoping that you’ll all be home for Easter, but we might have to do something a little different in terms of transport. **[Grandad’s looking out the Ford Anglia]** No, _not_ that.

We miss you Hugo **[yeah, we do. Lots.]** Keep having fun, and you can owl us anytime you like. **[Really, we’re doing ~~bugger all~~ not very much].**

Lots of love,

Mum and Dad

PS: Tell your sister to get her quill out, please.

Dear Rose,

Your Mum thought you’d be more likely to write back if I wrote this letter _[I didn’t say that Ron!]_. I think she’s realised that I’m your favourite parent _[oh, for goodness’ sake]_.

Anyway, this lockdown’s mental. Your mum’s going a bit bonkers _[also incorrect]_. We miss you and your brother. Crookshanks is a lost soul. _[Just like your father without his daily fly with Uncle Harry]_. What can I say? I’m a sociable fellow.

Speaking of flying, Neville told us you’re doing really well on the pitch - ~~bloody~~ _[Ron!]_ good job on making Chaser again, I really think you’ll be Captain next year, Rosie. _[Your studies are also very important though, so please do use that planner I got you.]_

We reckon you’ll be home for Easter _[Ron, we’re not allowed to say that]_. Well, we’re dusting off the Ford Anglia anyway, we broke your Uncle Harry out once before and we can do it again! _[Rose, this plan is not happening. Please ignore your father.]_

We miss you, Rosie. Please do write back when you can, it keeps your mum away from the Gillywater and the Muggle chocolate _[I’m not even responding to that one.]_

Lots of love,

Dad and Mum

PS: Keep an eye on Hugo, your mum worries. _[That’s… fair actually. Please look out for him Rose, he’s so shy.]_


	8. Chapter 8

‘Ron, you’re reading.’

‘Hmm?’ He looks up at her, from his comfortable position on the wicker garden chair.

‘You’re reading. A book - not just any book, at that. Hogwarts: A History.’ She wipes the back of her gardening glove on her forehead as she sits on the chair next to his. It’s a warm evening, and she’s been taking out some of her pent-up work aggression on some particularly odious weeds growing by the pond.

‘New and revised. 2010 edition. Your Christmas present that year, if I recall.’ He says, smugly, placing the book down on the table in front of them. She nods approvingly.

‘What’s brought this on? It’s only been a week of lockdown, Ron. I’ve been nagging you about this one for years.’

‘I’m self-improving, dear wife. That, and I wanted to check if they got some of the details right.’

‘Details?’

‘Yeah, the Battle. Specifically the actions of two heroes who may or may not be sitting at this very table right now.’

Hermione smiles, her cheeks still flushed from exertion. She lays her gloves down on the table beside the book.

‘I’m going to go and get us a drink.’

When she returns with two glasses of cold Gillywater, laced with mint and lemon, Ron is deeply absorbed in the book once more. She leans back in the chair, feeling the early evening sun on her face. It’s felt like the longest week in history. She squints over at her husband, who is frowning slightly as he reads.

‘Really, Ron, why read it now?’ She’s gentle, but curious. He blushes a little, and lowers the book to his lap.

‘The other night, I guess. Waking up like that. I haven’t – I haven’t actually thought about it all properly in a while, and I thought maybe reading about it would help get my head straight again. Try and see the bigger picture y’know? Remembering what we did?’ He closes the book and moves it back on to the table, grabbing his glass and avoiding her gaze.

‘That makes sense,’ she says softly, her heart swelling. She touches his arm softly. He smiles quietly.

‘It was rubbish anyway.’ He gestures to the book. She bristles.

‘Well, I actually think it’s a very objective and thoroughly researched –’

‘They missed out the best bit.’

‘– volume of scholarship… hold on, what?’

‘They skipped a bit.’

‘What on earth are you talking about? It’s a comprehensive account! I checked!’

‘They missed out the best bit,’ he’s grinning now as he repeats himself, leaning over the arm of his chair with his face to close to hers.

Suddenly she knows what he means. She hears the clatter of Basilisk fangs, remembers the pounding in her chest and the leap she took, running over to Ron with her heart full of love and her head somehow clearer than ever. She remembers being lifted off her feet and gripping onto him for dear life, and the intensity of the kiss they shared.

‘Ron,’ she says lamely, blushing hard, ‘they couldn’t really… I mean, only Harry…’

‘I’m kidding, Hermione,’ he says, sitting back into his chair and laughing. ‘I’m just sore that one of my all-time top three snogs didn’t make it into the literal history books.’

‘You have a top three?’

‘Hermione Granger-Weasley, look me in the eye and tell me you don’t.’

‘I – might, if pressed, be able to answer that.’

He raises an eyebrow at her.

‘Well, I’ve already told you one of mine, so it’s your turn, Minister.’

‘Then we concur on one. Although -’ she hesitates, feeling suddenly vulnerable ‘- I actually used to worry that you didn’t like that one. We didn’t talk about it much.’

He doesn’t laugh this time. He looks at her with thoughtful eyes, full of love, and grabs her hand in his.

‘I always, always loved it. But for a long time I couldn’t let myself even think about it. It just felt too surreal - the best moment of my life, followed by the worst. Loving it felt strange and almost wrong, for the longest time. And then other things happened - living with you, marrying you, the kids… and it got easier to think about. Because it’s life and death, innit? They’re part of the same thing. And I reckon Fred would’ve approved anyway. I definitely did.’

She’s so taken aback by his emotional honesty that she doesn’t know what to say or do other than to lean over and kiss him softly on the mouth. She feels him smile as she pulls away.

‘What are the other two, then?’ 

She’s curious now. He lets out a peal of laughter.

‘You’re getting into this, Mrs Granger-Weasley.’

‘I’m an active participant! I have a vested interest.’

‘Wicked. Well my fellow active participant, a left-field choice here but March 9th 2007. When you told me you were pregnant with Hugo.’

Hermione remembered this vividly: she’d been standing at the back door of the house, waiting for Ron to arrive back from work, feeling excited and apprehensive and completely floored. He’d grabbed her face, his eyes brimming with emotion, and pulled her close, and it had been a good thing Rose was already in bed as things had only escalated from there.

‘Not Rose?’ He paused, thoughtfully.

‘Well, with Rose, we were both just staring at the test in the bathroom and I was terrified and you were shaking, and don’t get me wrong it was bloody brilliant but it was this leap into the unknown… when you told me about Hugo, we’d already done it, and I knew we’d be okay and that we had all this love ahead of us, and how amazing and strong and fierce you are, and I just felt my heart double in size already with that confidence. And you were wearing that blouse that makes your t—’

‘RON!’ She buries her head in her hands. ‘How can one person go from emotional brilliance to wanton hedonism in one sentence?’

‘I have it on good authority that my emotional range has expanded to the size of a substantial ladle. Your turn!’

‘Truth be told, I liked that one too.’

‘Are we going to be on a streak of agreement? Someone owl Harry, this is unprecedented!’

‘What can I say? The world’s gone mad Ron. Maybe we have too.’

‘Tell me your number three, then,’ he challenges, pushing his chair closer to hers. The evening sun is setting now, and a pleasant breeze catches the air. She hesitates, thoughtful.

‘Wedding day.’

‘In front of everyone? Exhibitionism! That doesn’t seem like you!’ Ron chides.

‘No – the bit after the ceremony, where it was just you and me. Before we did all the meeting and greeting. We were in the orchard. I had my back to that tree and you leaned down and kissed me and it just felt… like the air around us was the same as it was in our bodies. I remember thinking that I wouldn’t change a single thing. I don’t think I’d ever felt that before about anything.’

It’s his turn now to lean over and kiss her, this time, deeply and slowly. When he pulls away, her heart is thumping and her stomach swoops in anticipation.

‘Bad news,’ he whispers.

‘What?’

‘We’re three for three.’

She pushes the table away and stands up, leaning over him. As she kisses him, she moves herself so that she’s sitting astride his lap, wrapping her arms around him, and trying to express the years’ worth of memories and love that swirls inside her mind. All the while, he’s thinking of the clattering of fangs, an implosion of passion and emotion, and the sense of freefall that comes with kissing Hermione.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is very much NSFW. M rated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adult content.

She whispers ‘bedroom’ into his ear and he nods enthusiastically, his ears burning. She pulls on his hand and leads him back into the house, drinks and book forgotten on the garden table. Her hand is warm in his, and his heart is thrumming in his throat with anticipation.

God, he loves their bedroom. He loves _her_ in their bedroom. As he follows her up the stairs, innumerable images flash before his eyes as he thinks of the myriad places they’ve made love over the years. For him, being in this bedroom with her is the happiest place he could be. It’s their space. They made it together. She pulls him back onto the bed and he’s lost in the sensation of her soft, delicious body and the way the cotton of the sheets envelops them both. She kisses him so deeply that he’s dizzy, giddy like it’s 1998 and there’s a war to be won. He rests his hands on either side of her head, looking down at her, searching her face for the right words to say to express what he’s feeling.She playfully wraps her legs around him and pulls him close.

‘I love you,’ she says softly, her lips tantalisingly close to his earlobe. Her words send a shiver straight down his spine and he positively growls as he catches her mouth in his. She knows what that does to him, even after all this time, that wicked, clever, beautiful mouth of hers.

He’s always found her ridiculously, compulsively, utterly intoxicating and the years since their children arrived have only heightened this. They’ve both softened round the edges, grown into themselves and left their teenage bodies behind but every damn time he touches her soft skin he’s thinking about how perfect she is, how beautiful. He slips a hand up under her shirt and feels her soft stomach tense with excitement under his touch - grinning, he whispers in her ear.

‘Can I touch you, Hermione?’

‘Please fucking do,’ she gasps, twisting to kiss him. He can feel how wound-up she is, how much she wants him in that moment. What a thing it is, to be wanted so deeply and to have your desire reciprocated. He presses his hardness against her inner thigh and hears her groan. He wants to give her everything in that moment, like he has every time since he was 18, trembling and kissing her urgently in Australia, trying to put everything he felt into his actions.

‘Let me,’ he says, using a deep, commanding voice he knows she loves. She throws her head back onto the bed, wailing softly in frustration and want. He traces his hands down her stomach, tugging gently at the fly of her jeans. He unbuttons them slowly, enjoying the tease. Instinctively she lifts her hips - he loves her hips, the curve of them, the way they fit in his hands - to let him slide the jeans from her. He does so swiftly, brushing his fingertips back up to the lace trim of her underwear, just below her navel. She’s wearing an exceptionally attractive pair of black knickers - not the skimpiest, not the laciest, but the ones that cling to her curves like no other, the ones that feel like silk as he slips his hand underneath them.

She’s writhing now, knowing exactly what he’s about to do, biting her lip, cheeks flushing, with the same burning light in her eyes that he remembers from the first time they did this, one hot and humid afternoon at the Burrow. He grins at her as his middle finger slips down onto her hot centre, drawing a gentle line along its entire length. He can feel how aroused she is, and somehow that only encourages him to go slower. He draws gentle circles around her opening, tracing the lines of her, his fingers wet with a heady scent of Hermione. She’s thrown her arms back, over her head, giving herself up to it. He loves that she trusts him to do this. He loves that he knows how.

He removes his hand briefly, hooking both thumbs under the black silken knickers, and pulls them gently from her. She’s completely exposed: her shirt is open, her bra barely containing her breasts, and her legs spread in eager anticipation. He watches the curves of her body, the scars, the lines, the inches of skin that he knows better than he knows himself. Fighting his own arousal, he leans to whisper in her ear, his hand lingering on her inner thigh, his fingers wet and pressing into her skin.

‘What do you want?’ He knows the answer.

‘I want… I want you to touch me. I want to let go.’

He kisses her throat and drags his lips down her chest, her torso, til he’s inhaling the scent of her. He kisses her inner thigh softly, nipping gently with his teeth. He looks up at her and slips his hand between her legs once more, moving up so that he’s alongside her, his free hand wrapping its fingers in her hair as he presses his forehead to hers. She gasps as he slides a finger inside her, moving gently but with a firm pressure. His thumb rubs gently around her clitoris, avoiding the direct contact he knows will come later. She grasps a hand into his hair, pulling him down to kiss her as she breathes his name, her chest heaving and a sheen of sweat forming. He’s shirtless now, and she’s liquid warmth against his fingers, stroking and teasing.

He’s building a rhythm - 22 years of experience has afforded him the confidence of knowing her body intimately - and slowly, deliberately, he draws his thumb into the position he knows will be her undoing. He curls a second finger inside her and feels her start to tremble. She’s saying his name with increasing urgency as her climax builds and he knows not to stop or to pull away because this is Hermione and she needs him, the only one who gets to give her this.

He looks her in the eye and whispers her name. She cries out as she lets go, her breath hitching. He feels her clenching, her walls rippling around his fingers, her clit a swollen nub beneath his thumb. She comes long and hard, and he’s gasping too, subsumed by the desire unfurling in his chest. He’s amazed he’s managed to keep it together this long. As she melts back into the bed, he gently removes his hand, reaching up to brush hair from his eyes. He runs his hand down her torso, a damp trail on her soft, goosebumped skin.

‘I…’ she can hardly get words out, ‘I…’

He looks at her, grinning lazily.

‘Oh sod it.’ Hermione flips him onto his back and starts to unpeel his jeans, nimble fingers making light work of his fly. In what feels like no time at all, she’s on top of him, her legs hugging his hips as she fucks him, leaning over his chest and kissing him deeply. His hands are spread over her, gripping the soft curves of her waist as she envelops his senses entirely. He unhooks her bra and as her nipples press against his chest, he lets out a cry. She presses into him earnestly, enticing him, riding him and Ron is gone. He throws his head back with a cry as he comes hard, his heart bursting out of his chest, Hermione biting down on his shoulder. She presses into his chest for a moment after, her forehead resting on his. Slowly she rolls off, curling into his side.

They gaze at one another, breathing heavily.

‘Fuck.’ Ron says.

‘Indeed.’ She agrees, her hand resting on his chest. ‘Don’t tell me there’s a top three for that too?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Oh for Merlin’s sake…’


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron categorically does _not_ have the thing we are all worried about, but he does have a cold, bless him. The author was feeling a bit poorly today and wrote this in solidarity.

Hermione has already gone by the time Ron wakes up. There’s a hastily scribbled note on her pillow which he squints to read, before giving up and reaching for his reading glasses.

_Ron,_

_So sorry I had to go. Muggle PM taken into hospital overnight. Yes, that *insert your chosen expletive of the day here*. I should be back later today._

_Last night was wonderful._

_I love you x_

He rolls onto his back with a sigh. He had planned for Hermione’s favourite breakfast but in light of her absence, he wonders if he can justify a bacon roll. Crookshanks idles up to the bed and jumps up onto his lap. Scratching behind Crookshanks’ furry ears, Ron lets his mind drift back to memories of the night before. Before long, he’s asleep again, glasses askew on his face and Crookshanks purring happily on his chest.

When he wakes again, a couple of hours later, the sun is bright outside the curtains. As he sits up groggily, ignoring Crookshanks’ hiss of disapproval, it becomes apparent that his head is killing him. As he moves to stand up, the feeling intensifies and he realises that he’s aching all over. He screws his face up in frustration, realising that his throat is sore and there’s a tell-tale sheen of sweat on his forehead.

‘Bloody hell,’ he mumbles, making his way slowly to the bathroom. Hoping that a shower will help, he takes a reasonable dose of Painkilling Potion, turns the water to hot and lets the steam fill the room as he brushes his teeth. He has a feeling it’s going to be another long, boring day.

—

Hermione arrives home to find her husband lying on the sofa, fast asleep. A telltale vial of Painkilling Potion sits on the coffee table alongside an empty mug and a pile of tissues. She inhales the soothing scent of mint and menthol, and gently moves him so she can sit with his legs across her lap. He mumbles sleepily as she moves her head back to rest against the back of the sofa. He sits up, eyes unfocused.

‘You’re back… sorry, I was…’ he looks around the room, confused. ‘I don’t remember actually.’

‘Are you feeling alright love?’ She asks, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. Thankfully it’s not feverish, but she can feel that he’s clammy.

‘Not hugely,’ he admits, summoning two glasses of water. He looks tensely at her. ‘It can’t be that Muggle thing, can it?’

‘Despite the PM’s best efforts to transmit it, no I don’t think it can be. There are no cases of Muggle to wizard transmission and the St Mungo’s staff are certain this is isolated to the Muggle population.’

He sags back into the sofa with a sigh of relief.

‘Oh thank Merlin. I thought I was going to be like this for weeks.’

‘No, I’d say going by your usual Weasley illness trajectory you’ve got another day of this, followed by a day of a stronger than usual compulsion to eat us out of house and home to ‘fortify’ yourself, then you’ll be right as rain again.’

She smiles fondly at him, her hand stroking his leg. He smiles back, wincing slightly at what she can only assume is a headache - she can tell he’s properly poorly now.

‘Are you not worried about catching it?’

‘Honestly Ron, a day off might not be the worst thing right now.’

‘Speaking of, how is that –’ he feebly makes a rude hand gesture ‘–getting on anyway?’

‘Don’t ask. My workload has just doubled as a result.’

‘Bugger.’

‘Quite.’

‘What do you fancy for dinner?’ He asks, starting to move his legs.

‘Ron, don’t be silly. You’re not cooking. In fact… how about a takeaway?’

His eyes light up.

‘The place that has the soup? And the dumplings?’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’

‘Brilliant.’

Later, he falls asleep on her lap as they watch television together. Listening to the rumble of his breathing and the sighs of sleep, Hermione rests a hand in his hair, stroking it gently. 

Sometimes, in these quiet moments, it hits her just how lucky she is. No matter how terrible a day or arduous a task, he’s there for her. She watches him sleeping, his breathing deep and even, and feels her heart expand with love. 

Not even the thought of another day at the Ministry can dampen that.


	11. Chapter 11

‘Let me see it,’ Ron says, reaching for the Muggle newspaper. His wife has spent the last five minutes poring over it, huffing and muttering to herself over the puzzle pages.

Hermione groans.

‘Ron, no…’ she says feebly as he pulls the paper over to his side of the bed. He frowns jokingly at her.

‘You’re only saying that because I’m better at this than you, and you don’t like it.’

‘That’s – true, actually.’ She admits, passing him the old pencil she’s been scribbling with.

‘See? “Recognition and acceptance is a healthy part of communication”,’ he says, smugly, starting to write.

‘Urgh, I still can’t decide if it’s a good thing or not that you actually read _Compassionate Communication for Couples _.’__

__‘Well, you asked me to! I found it very rewarding. Now we can both accept my superiority. Particularly in these challenging times.’_ _

__‘Clearly,’ she says, archly. She slides closer to him as he fills in another answer in the cryptic crossword. ‘How are you doing that Ron? They’re the peak of Muggle nonsense!’_ _

__‘I like them. They’re just a different kind of logic.’ She grumbles into his shoulder. He nudges her and points to the top row._ _

__‘See this is where you’ve gone a bit askew.’ She reads the clue again. ‘This one’s a hidden answer - so the letters are already there, and the first and last bit is just the straight clue. The answer’s ‘integrity’’_ _

__‘How on _earth_ do you know that?’_ _

__‘Practice! We got given these in Auror training to help us with code breaking and interception. Nobody else liked ‘em but I loved doing it. I did try to explain them to you but you were, as I recall, less receptive than anticipated. And then, strangely, very receptive but to something else entirely.’_ _

__‘RON!’ She chucks a pillow at him, blushing. He roars with laughter and throws the paper aside. He’s feeling much better today, and it is with a much younger energy that he quickly pins his wife down and starts to tickle her ribs._ _

__‘Ron, no! Don’t!’ She’s laughing so hard her face has turned dark red._ _

__‘Admit it. I’m the crossword king and you’re hopelessly jealous.’_ _

__‘ _Never!_ ’_ _

__He’s holding both her wrists lightly under his right hand while his left skims her ribs, tickling her over her pyjama top. Hearing her refusal, he slips his hand under the top, now tickling her bare ribs. She shrieks._ _

__‘Fine! Fine! You’re the crossword king! I’m hopelessly jealous!’ She’s beside herself, her legs twisted in the bedcovers. He’s thoroughly enjoying himself, but pulls back, grabs the paper from where it’s landed on the floor and calmly continues the crossword._ _

__‘Thought so,’ he says, serenely, a grin playing on his lips._ _

__Hermione is breathing hard, and adjusts her pyjama top, trying to regain her dignity._ _

__‘I’m still better at Sudoku.’ She says loftily, reaching for her book. He turns to look at her and they smile together. He leans over and kisses her forehead._ _

__‘ _Cretin_.’_ _

__‘I’m sorry, what?!’_ _

__‘It’s the answer to number four.’_ _

__‘Oh. Okay.’_ _


	12. Chapter 12

By the time she hears the fifth crash from above her home office, Hermione is already halfway up the rickety steps to the attic. She pokes her head through the trapdoor and pulls herself up into the old storage space, now full of cardboard boxes and a long table covered in parchment and brown paper.

Her husband is looking harangued, and a box of Decoy Detonators has exploded open at his feet. The beetle-like contraptions chatter as they run around the floor of the attic and she catches Ron’s eye as they brace themselves for the barrage of explosions.

Once each detonator has deployed, Hermione removes her fingers from her ears, the residual smoke causing her to cough. Ron’s hair is sticking on end, and she notes with a swell of affection, that he has a black smudge on his nose. She’s not sure if it’s ink or dust, but it sends her back to a train journey many years ago. Before she can say anything, she feels a set of claws grip into her hair, and she lets out an almighty shriek.

‘Oh for f— PUCK!’ Ron bellows, striding over to extricate the excited brown owl from his wife’s hair. Hermione slumps to the floor, massaging her head as Ron moves the hooting owl over to the table. He attaches Puck’s leg to a short leather tie on the corner of the table, which keeps him in place while Ron completes a package label. Attaching the label to a small box, he looks at Puck sternly.

‘No trips to Ireland this time, Puck. This is for LIVERPOOL. You know? North of here? England?’

Puck chirps and nips at Ron’s finger as he attaches the package.

‘Merlin.’ He gets up, throws the skylight open, loosens the knot around Puck’s leg and throws his arms up. ‘Fly! Begone! Away!’

Hermione can’t help but laugh as Puck hoots once more, jumps onto Ron’s shoulder, package and all, and starts to rub his feathery head on Ron’s cheek.

‘You are absolutely useless. Worse than Pig.’ He mutters. After what seems like an inordinately long minute, Puck finally ambles along Ron’s outstretched arm and takes flight, the package hitting the window ledge on the way out with an ominous thud.

‘Well, I hope that Miriam Weatherby of Liverpool likes owls with her Wonder Witch products.’ He slumps down next to Hermione, sighing heavily.

‘Are you ok?’ He’s running his hands gently through her hair, checking for damage.

‘Unscathed.’ She affirms, but lets him fuss for a moment anyway.

‘Remember when I said I’d take on the owl delivery?’

‘Vividly.’

‘I wasn’t thinking. This is hell. This is worse than when the kids were toddlers. I’d rather toilet train Rose ten times over than deal with these owls. Puck’s not even the worst one. Hildegard is about twice his size and has the temper of Ginny on a bad day.’

Hermione stifles a laugh.

‘I’ll tell her you said that.’

‘Please do. She might come over and put me out of my misery.’

‘Poor Ron,’ she says, smiling as she cups his face in her hands.

‘Yes, poor me,’ he agrees, grinning at her. She flattens his hair down a little. He leans into her touch and kisses her briefly on the wrist.

‘What time is it anyway?’ He asks.

‘Just coming up to five. Floo conference finished early.’

‘I’ve just got one more package to send, then I can call it a night.’

‘Want me to help?’

‘Would you? It’s not a big one and the only owl left is Abelard.’ He gestures to the snowy owl in the corner of the room, peering out from its roomy cage.

‘Abelard!’ Hermione smiles in delight, walking over the cage. ‘You’re my favourite, aren’t you? Yes you are, you’re very handsome and so gentle…’

Ron rolls his eyes as he makes his way to the table.

‘He puts it on for you, you know.’

She looks at him, pulling a scandalised face.

‘Nonsense! He’s just got selective taste, don’t you Ab?’ She’s stroking his head now, and the owl is hooting happily.

‘Yeah, well, he wasn’t bloody gentle when he got back from a trip to the West Country this morning.’ Ron indicates a small scratch on his forehead.

‘How dare you Ron! He’s the very definition of a gentleman.’ Hermione chides, but Ron feels the soft heat of a healing charm cast surreptitiously over the scratch.

He smiles to himself, gathering the last of the mail order for Simon Barker of Kirkcaldy. Dungbombs safely in place, he hastily signs the invoice, wraps the package and finishes the label. Hermione brings Abelard over on her arm and he sits quite happily, much to Ron’s annoyance, as the package is attached. There’s no coaxing needed for Abelard, who sets off immediately.

‘At least he usually gets the right address,’ Ron concedes, watching the white shape disappear into the early evening clouds.

‘He looks a bit like Hedwig,’ Hermione muses, her voice soft.

‘Hedwig would never have disgraced herself by getting stuck in the skylight.’

‘Fair. Pig on the other hand…’

‘Goes without saying.’

‘You miss that little guy don’t you?’

‘Harry or Pig?’

‘Both.’

‘Definitely.’


	13. Chapter 13

Ron has just returned from a government-sanctioned (and more importantly, Hermione-endorsed) run around the park. He’s sweating profusely and bemoaning the last few weeks of inactivity as he opens the front door. He can hear Hermione laughing from the living room as he kicks off his muddy trainers and he debates whether or not to head straight to the shower. Feeling in need of a seat, he decides to stop and say hello to his wife, who is doubtless on the Muggle phone to her mother.

He enters the room to see a Muggle computer propped up on the coffee table beside a half-drunk glass of wine and a well-thumbed paperback. Hermione is sitting with her legs curled up under her on the sofa. He’s delighted to see that it’s his sister on the other end of the call and immediately throws himself over the back of the sofa to join in.

‘Alright Ginny!’ He waves happily as Hermione groans.

‘Ron -- I love you but you’re disgusting, can’t you at least shower first?’ He throws a damp arm around her and ruffles her hair as she grumbles weakly.

‘Thank Merlin this Muggle computer doesn’t transmit smell,’ says Ginny serenely, taking a sip from her own wine. ‘Hi Ron. You look revolting.’

‘I love you too, Ginevra. I’ve been running, as it happens.’

‘Yes, Hermione mentioned. Short run, was it?’

‘Hey, I did 5k! It was no picnic, mind you, but I did it.’ He sticks his tongue out at his sister, who grins at him. Hermione tries to sort her newly-ruffled hair, half-glaring at Ron, who has spread out on the sofa and summoned himself a glass, which he is now filling with wine. He leans into the camera.

‘Where’s Harry anyway? OI HARRY!’ Ginny rolls her eyes, muttering curses, as Harry rushes into the frame.

‘RON! Hi mate! They said you were out.’

‘He was.’ Hermione says, sadly, finishing her wine in one.

‘How are you?’ Harry asks. He and Ron are grinning at each other as though deprived of contact for months. In reality, they’ve spoken only yesterday but their excitement is palpable. Hermione and Ginny share a mutinous look.

‘Going spare if I’m honest, just been out for a run round the park. That weird dog is back, you know the one I told you about? With the awful rash around its --?’

‘Oh for Merlin’s sake, Ron,’ Hermione wails. Harry roars with laughter, stopping only when he catches sight of Ginny’s stony face.

‘Anyway, I thought we weren’t doing these Muggle calls? I thought it was… what did you say Hermione? Silly when we can just Floo individually?’

She looks rather crestfallen.

‘She said that because of you two, you absolute plonker,’ Ginny interjects, shooting her brother and her husband murderous looks.

‘What?’ Harry looks wounded. ‘What do you mean ‘you two’? You love us!’

‘We do’ Hermione says weakly, ‘but you do tend to get rather… overexcited. It’s hard to get a word in edgeways.’

Ron gapes at her.

‘And what about you two?’ He gestures wildly at the screen and at Hermione. ‘You and your bloody book club! You don’t even like books Gin! Chatting nonsense about some quasi-pornographic historical bollocks…’

‘THEY’RE GOOD BOOKS RON!’ Ginny bellows. ‘Just because you don’t understand the finer workings of the female mind…’

‘You’ve got to admit Gin, they are a bit racy,’ Harry remarks, in defense of his friend, ‘James got hold of one over summer and I swear he passed it round half of Gryffindor...’

It’s Ron’s turn to snicker now. Ginny is seething now, while Hermione sits with her head in her hands.

‘Can’t we just have some quiet time?’ Hermione’s exasperation is palpable in her voice. ‘We just wanted to share a glass of wine and a bit of a chat without… what did Rose and Lily call it? The bromance.’

‘Chat about romance, without the bromance,’ Ginny agrees, looking pointedly at Harry and Ron in turn.

‘Hear that Harry? We’ve got a bromance!’ Ron beams. ‘That’s good isn’t it?’ He turns quickly to Hermione who shrugs her shoulders noncommittally.

‘Excellent,’ says Harry. ‘Maybe this means we can go on flying dates again soon?’

‘No.’ Hermione and Ginny chorus in unison. ‘Social distancing!’

‘I would argue that hundreds of feet in the air is pretty distant…’ Harry begins but stops short when Hermione throws him a particularly nasty glare.

They sit in silence for a moment, Ron helping himself to more wine and some crisps that he’s spotted on the table. Ginny’s arms are crossed and Harry looks to Ron for guidance. Ron gives him an ‘I dunno’ kind of look as he munches.

‘So you’d like us to eff off then?’ Harry asks balefully.

‘Yes.’ Ginny snaps. ‘For another half an hour at least. Please.’ Hermione nods in agreement.

‘Fine.’ Ron stands up and stretches. ‘I’m off to take a bath.’

‘Want to chat on the Muggle phone Ron? There’s a game replay on the wireless, we could listen together!’ Harry says, excitedly.

‘Sounds brilliant mate.’

‘You talk on the phone to one another from the bath?’ Hermione asks incredulously.

Harry and Ron look at her, nonplussed.

‘Well, yeah,’ Ron says, shrugging.

‘What of it?’ Harry asks, confused.

Hermione and Ginny share a look.

‘Fine. Go ahead. See you in a bit,’ Hermione says, her lips quirking as Ron gives her a sweaty kiss on the forehead.

Ron reaches into the pocket of his trousers for his Muggle phone which is already vibrating.

He quite likes the idea of a bromance.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stargazing, of a sort. thanks to @torestoreamends for the starry prompt!

It’s quite difficult to open the back door with a mug of steaming tea in each hand, so Ron decides to risk the ire of Hermione and the attention of any Muggle passers-by by levitating the mugs in front of him as he walks outside to join his wife.

It’s after 10pm on another Tuesday in lockdown, and the air has a bite to it that makes him very appreciative of the Weasley jumpers they have opted to wear for their nocturnal jaunt into the garden.

When he reaches the pond, Hermione takes her mug with only one raised eyebrow, to which Ron responds with his best winning smile. She rolls her eyes, but smiles back.

‘Dad thought they’d be visible by now,’ she says, looking upwards. Ron moves closer to her and they stand entwined, looking up. She shifts so that her back is pressed against his chest and he enjoys both the sensation of her body and the warmth it offers.

‘What is it we’re looking for again?’ He asks, squinting.

‘Satellites. They’re meant to look like bright stars, but they’ll be in a very straight line.’

‘And some Muggle actually made them and put them up there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mental.’

‘It is a bit. I don’t know if Professor Sinistra would approve.’

‘Shame we didn’t keep our old school telescopes. Mine was a piece of junk though, I think it’s probably better off wherever it ended up.’

‘I gave mine to my dad,’ says Hermione thoughtfully, sipping her tea. ‘It’s one of the subjects we could actually talk about together. It was quite nice.’

‘He does love space stuff,’ Ron agrees, one arm around Hermione and the other clutching his mug. ‘He’s getting Hugo into it too. Rose doesn’t have the patience.’

‘Can’t imagine where she gets that from.’

‘Hey! I’m very patient.’

‘Of course you are, dear.’ She looks over her shoulder and winks at him.

They watch quietly for a few minutes, sipping tea and standing close. Hermione summons an additional blanket from the house.

‘Minister! You’re not supposed to do magic in the garden!’

‘Oh, shush. It’s quiet.’

He passes her his mug, takes the blanket and drapes it over both of their shoulders.

‘Feel’s like Harry’s old cloak,’ he remarks. ‘Scratchier though.’

‘That’ll be the wool – oh! Look!’ She gestures upwards and Ron catches sight of a row of blinking white lights, moving quickly across the indigo sky. They watch in silence for a moment before the shapes disappear behind a cloud.

‘They do look pretty cool,’ he admits, looking down at her. ‘Even if I’m not entirely sure what the point is.’

‘Something to do with the internet,’ Hermione says, patting his arm. ‘So you and Harry can have better quality phone calls.

‘And you can have more explicit book groups?’ He pokes her in the ribs.

‘Ha ha.’

He rests his chin on top of her head for a moment. She’s placed the mugs on the ground at their feet and she pulls his hands into hers, resting over her stomach. He squeezes her gently.

‘Technically, in wizarding tradition, you’re supposed to kiss after you see a shooting star,’ he ventures, ‘and those were like… well, there were a fair number of stars.’

‘Satellites.’ She turns round to smile up at him, her arms around his neck now.

‘Whatever.’ He bends down and kisses her gently. She sighs and he breathes in the faint smell of lavender and home that seems to follow her wherever she goes.

‘I am very certain that’s not a wizarding tradition, Ron,’ she says softly, barely pulling back from his lips as she speaks.

‘Well… it’s an us tradition then.’

As she kisses him, he’s sure he can feel her smiling.

All of a sudden there’s an almighty screech from behind them. They spin around to see a mass of feathers slumped against the skylight of their roof.

‘Did you forget to leave the window open?’ Hermione asks, as Puck the owl hoots balefully.

‘Yep,’ Ron sighs. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it.’

‘I’ll come and help.’

‘He’s a git.’

‘I know. You love him though.’

‘Yeah. Not quite as much as I love you.’

‘I should hope not. I’m much better at getting through windows.’


	15. Chapter 15

_Ron,_

_Today is just awful. I’m at my wit’s end. I think I should be home by 8 at the latest but there’s a situation at St Mungo’s that they need me for, and that wretched man needs a home visit so there’s that to endure._

_Chess tonight?_

_Love,_

_Hermione_

Even though Ron’s heart hurts for his wife, he feels a twinge of excitement at the word chess.

He grins to himself as he works in the kitchen, after a day spent fulfilling owl orders in the attic. A lasagne is levitated into the oven while a new loaf of bread is removed. Miggs, the family owl, hoots happily from atop a kitchen counter as Ron indulges in their favourite, albeit one-sided, game of catch-the-treat.

At half past seven, Ron finally allows himself to head through the living room to set up. There’s an old wooden table they picked up years ago that sits underneath the living room window, usually covered with books and a candle or two. When it’s a chess night, it is taken out, brushed down and placed in front of the fireplace, with two armchairs moved to face one another on either side.

Selecting the set - now there’s another challenge. He’s accrued a few sets over the years, as gifts, curios and projects to tinker with. His favourite is still his oldest set, the one he taught Harry with back in first year, inherited from Bill. He knows the players inside out, and thinking of the stress Hermione has been under, opts for familiarity and comfort, setting the well-worn figures out on the board, listening to their familiar voices.

Chess used to be his kingdom, and to an extent it still is - he can still beat anyone he plays, though Hugo has given him a good run over the last year or two. But when Hermione wants to play chess it means something else altogether. His heart swells as he thinks about it.

They’d started playing together at Hogwarts, all the way back at the start. She was uncertain and a little abrasive, unused to not having the upper hand in something ostensibly intellectual. He really thought after their first match that she would never play with him again, and the thought had made him so deeply sad, for reasons he wouldn’t understand for a few years yet. But she had appeared again the next day in the common room, sat herself down by the fire with her jaw set in determination and demanded that he show her again. It had become their tradition, over the years. Something for them to do when Harry was elsewhere, or when he needed space to brood or think. Something for them.

She’d even let him help her. The slow movements on the chess board, the melting reluctance to accept advice - they’d all been crucial steps in the way they’d grown together, understanding one another and learning how to fit together as a team.

They hadn’t played during the war. It had been one of the things that ate at him the most, trivial though it sounded. They hadn’t packed a chess set and when he was at his lowest ebb, watching them from his bunk, with his heart calcified and sore, he had begun to think he had imagined all that had transpired over the years of looking at one another over the board.

A week after the Battle, back at the Burrow, he’d been sitting in numb silence in his room, staring at the ceiling. Hermione had walked into the room, quiet but determined, and placed the old family chess set beside him. They hadn’t spoken, but they’d played a tentative game, their hands entwined to the side of the board. He’d triumphed with an unexpected manoeuvre from a battered old bishop, and he’d smiled properly for the first time since the funeral.

Over the years, chess has become their thing. It’s a way to communicate and to shut out the rest of the world. It focuses their minds, it takes everything they know about one another and their shared history and externalises it onto the board in a breathtaking mix of objectivity and patience.

Rose and Hugo watch them sometimes, offering advice, enjoying the quiet spectacle. (Ron would never admit it, but Hugo’s last tip about an overlooked knight and an unsuspecting queen was a crucial point in his Christmas 2019 victory. He’ll find out one day.)

When Hermione says she wants to play chess, it means she wants to be with _him_ , to share their space and not think about anything else at all. It’s a release for both of them, and she just looks so perfect when she’s focussed on that board, her brow furrowed and her lip bitten. She still hasn’t won, years on, but Ron has a strong suspicion that that’s part of the draw for her - the predictability and the knowledge that he will always be there for her in a way that she can count on. He doesn’t question it, or articulate this to her. He just understands.

So when she appears from the fireplace to see the board set up, and Ron lying back lazily in his usual chair, waiting to greet her with that wonderful grin and a soft kiss, Hermione feels her heart expand and softness envelop her. She presses her face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of bread and home. He gives her a squeeze and takes her hand as he leads her through to the kitchen.

It’s a two hour after dinner match that evening, and though the Minister for Magic puts up a valiant fight, with some very shrewd use of an unimpressed rook and a pair of foolhardy pawns, Ron is once again triumphant. Victory is declared with a passionate kiss and a swift retreat to the bedroom.

He’ll put the board away in the morning, he thinks as they head upstairs, hand-in-hand, listening to the players squabble by the fire.


	16. Chapter 16

On a spindly table in the corner of their living room sits an old telephone.

Their old Muggle landline exists for the sole purpose of ensuring that the Grangers are able to contact them at the house if they need to. Hermione has tried to get them accustomed to Floo calls, and latterly, Muggle technology, with limited success. Her father Paul is happy to tinker with computers and Muggle pocket phones but Helen is much more hesitant.

Ron is halfway down the stairs with a box of Wheezes returns when he hears the ring. Hermione reaches it before him, and pulls the phone over towards the sofa, where he sits down beside her and starts riffling through the faulty and damaged packages.

‘Hello Mum,’ Hermione says softly, leaning back into the cushions, ‘how are you?’

Ron can hear the hum of Helen’s voice on the other end of the phone. Hermione smiles as she listens to her mum, cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, and stroking both of Crookshanks’ cheeks as he purrs from her lap.

‘Work’s busy - yes, I know, he’s an utter idiot.’

Ron points at himself, miming shock. Hermione rolls her eyes, shakes her head and mouths ‘PM’.

‘I don’t think I can tell him that Mum, but if the opportunity presents itself I will.’ 

Ron snickers as he examines a slightly off-colour Puking Pastille before lobbing it into the wicker bin.

‘Yes he’s here - I’ll put him on.’ She smiles as she hands Ron the phone. He passes her a jar of bruise removal cream that won’t open and she sets to it with her wand, while Crookshanks bats at it.

‘Hi Helen! How are you?’

‘Ron! Oh, you know, still locked up. It’s so nice to hear from you, we miss your visits.’

‘I miss them too, who else can make a cup of tea like you?’

‘Oh shush, they’d be rubbish without your scones. Have you been baking much?’

‘Well you know Hermione runs a tight ship, I’m hardly out of the kitchen!’

Hermione shoots him a glare as the top of the jar finally twists open. She can hear her mum laughing.

‘How are your mum and dad?’

‘They’re fine - Mum rang earlier actually, sends her love. Dad’s driving her a bit loopy I think.’

‘Back in his shed?’

‘Yes. He said to say thank you to Paul for that old video player, he’s been having a lot of fun with that one, I think.’

‘Oh it’s no problem dear, none at all.’

‘I’ll pass you back to your lovely daughter Helen, but you take care of yourself!’

‘You too Ron.’

He hands the phone back to Hermione with a smug grin and she smiles back, swapping him the phone for the jar. He sniffs dubiously at the paste.

‘Another headache Mum?’ Her brow knits in concern. 

They talk for a few more minutes before Hermione bids her goodbye. She carries the phone back to its corner, and places it gently on the table. She pauses for a second before removing her hand from where it placed the phone back in the cradle.

He knows the worry before she’s even opened her mouth.

‘It’s just a headache, Hermione. She won’t have been wearing the right glasses to watch television, or the weather change will have set her off.’’

‘What if it’s not though? What if it’s still what I did?’ Her pain is writ large on her face as the spectre of Australia looms between them.

He gets up to stand in front of her, hands on her shoulders. He leans over.

‘You worry far too much. It’s just a headache. She’ll be right as rain.’

His Muggle phone pings from his pocket. He looks down to see it’s a message from Paul.

_Tell Hermione not to worry. Wrong glasses again._

He shows Hermione the message, and feels her shoulders sag with relief. She looks up at him shyly.

‘I think the stress might be getting to me a bit,’ she admits. He touches her face gently, cupping her cheeks in his hands. He kisses her and rests his forehead on hers.

‘I think that’s understandable.’

‘You do?’

‘I do.’

They look over at Crookshanks who has stretched to fill the recently vacated sofa, rolling on his back and purring.

‘Admittedly, less so for him.’ Ron nods towards the sofa.

Hermione smiles and walks over to sweep Crookshanks up into her arms. Ron watches the two of them with a deep warmth in his heart.


	17. Chapter 17

It’s around 9pm when the power goes out. The wind is howling through the eaves of the house while the rain pelts the windows, the sound only slightly muffled by the curtains. 

There’s a yell from the kitchen as Hermione drops what sounds like a mug, and Ron leaps to his feet from the sofa, his wand rolling off his lap and onto the rug. Immediately, he stubs his toe on the coffee table leg. He swallows his curses in favour of checking on Hermione.

‘Are you okay?’ He calls through to his wife.

‘Yes - this mug’s not though,’ she responds, sadly. 

He wonders if it’s the mug that Rose and Hugo got her for Mother’s Day. He really hopes not.

‘Have you got your wand Hermione?’

‘No - it’s on the coffee table I think.’

Ron fumbles for it, feels it roll out of his hands and onto the floor, presumably to join his own. Terrified of stepping on either one of them, always remembering the horror of his broken wand in second year and the initial fate of Harry’s holly wand, he stoops down gently and starts to feel around.

‘Merlin’s saggy left — Hermione! I can’t find it! Is that torch still in the drawer?’

‘Are you a wizard or not? Just accio it!’

‘I can’t! I’m a wizard without a bloody wand! Mine’s rolled under the sofa I think…’ He sighs, his knees starting to hurt as he kneels down and fumbles in the darkness.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake. Some war heroes we are.’ 

There’s a clatter and a thump from the kitchen. He hears Crookshanks yowl piercingly and skitter out of the room, passing by him in a blur of pomp and fluff.

‘I’m sorry Crookshanks!’ Hermione calls pleadingly. ‘I didn’t know you were there!’

‘Did you find the sodding torch?’ Ron bellows, exasperated by the second power cut in as many weeks.

‘Not yet - I did find your spare keys though. I told you they were in here.’

‘Wonderful. Are those by any chance the special light-up keys that illuminate rooms and find wands?’ He quips sarcastically, giving up on his search and lying down on the rug with his hands behind his head.

‘Ha ha. Oh! Here we are.’ There’s a click and a pleased ‘hmm’ from Hermione. Mission accomplished, she swiftly steps through to the living room with a pale beam of light emitting from an old red torch they keep around for emergencies. She immediately trips over her husband, who she completely fails to see spreadeagled at her feet.

‘Ouch! Bloody hell Hermione!’

‘Sorry! What are you doing down there anyway?’ The torch beam is right in his eyes now.

‘Looking for our bloody wands and contemplating life.’

She sets the torch down on the coffee table and comes to help. Together they scrabble and finally find Hermione’s wand tucked just under the corner of the rug, and Ron’s having rolled away to the very back of the sofa. Blowing dust off them, Hermione quickly conjures some bluebell flames, and sets a fire in the grate.

Their living room now illuminated, the fire and flames combining to a soft purple glow, they smile at each other. Hermione switches the torch off and attempts to stand. She’s stiffer on her feet than she’d like to admit but she’s up before Ron who sits up weakly, frowning up at her.

‘Best leave me here,’ he says balefully. ‘I’m too old to get up.’

‘Old? Ron Weasley you’re barely forty, don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I used to be young you know. Good looking. Lots of ladies all clamouring to get to me. They were even better looking. Oh, how times have changed…’

‘I’d think very carefully about your next remark, Mr Granger-Weasley.’ Hermione says, trying not to smile as she presses her lips together. She extended a hand down to help him up. He grabs her arm just below the elbow and pulls himself up with surprising ease.

‘Oof.’ He smiles at her, not letting go of her arm. ‘Maybe there’s life in me yet.’

‘There’d better be,’ she says drily, ‘I need you to go and reset the fuse box. It’s too high up for me and it always sparks if we use our wands.’

‘Is that why you keep me around?’

‘That, and your wand-finding skills.’ She stands on her toes to kiss him briefly before settling back down onto the sofa and reopening her book. ‘I did have to beat all those _even better looking_ women out of the way after all.’

‘You’re the best one you know.’

‘I know. Now go and fix the fuse box please.’

‘Come with me and I’ll just lift you up so you can do it?’

‘I thought you were old and infirm?’

‘Nah, it’ll be fine. I’ve had a new appreciation for life in the last thirty seconds.’

‘Alright. I’ll take the stepladder just in case.’

‘Fair.’


	18. Chapter 18

Hermione sits bolt upright. 

It’s early in the morning and the inky light that comes just before sunrise fills the bedroom. Ron is snoring softly at her side and for a moment, Hermione is completely uncertain as to why she’s awake. She’s not sweating, and it certainly wasn’t a nightmare - but a loud screech from upstairs interrupts her train of thought.

Owls. 

The Wheezes owls are creating a cacophony of noise, and a particularly resonant screech has jolted her awake. Frustrated at being the only one awake, and less than keen to go upstairs and investigate, she decides to wake up her husband. He’s sleeping with his arms crossed above his head and she prods him gently on the ribs.

‘Ron.’ He grunts softly and shifts so his eyes are covered.

‘Ron.’ He rolls over, mumbling something about Quaffles.

‘RON.’

‘Bloody hell!’

She presses a finger to his lips and looks meaningfully at the ceiling. His bleary eyes follow her gaze and sure enough, the hooting continues.

‘Did you remember to close the door?’ She asks quietly, their eyes still trained upstairs.

‘I was sure I had… I know they’re nocturnal, but bloody _hell_ , something’s got their wands in a knot.’

The door to their bedroom suddenly creaks open and they both jump. 

Ron grabs the Deluminator from his bedside and the room fills with the warm glow of their bedroom candles. Hermione breathes a sigh of relief as she sees Crookshanks slinking through the door.

‘It’s just Crookshanks,’ she says, patting the bedsheets for him to join them. 

Crookshanks jumps up onto the bed, purring happily. She jerks back as she notices something hanging from his mouth. 

Ron has fallen back onto his pillows, grumbling softly.

‘Ron?’

‘Mmmph.’

‘Are you using Doxys for anything at Wheezes at the moment?’

‘Yeah. We needed fresh eggs for a new product idea.’

‘Crookshanks has one.’

‘What?!’

He sits bolt upright and Hermione picks Crookshanks up gingerly by the scruff of the neck. A tiny, angry Doxy growls at them, one of its wings clamped in Crookshanks’ mouth.

‘I need gloves for this.’ 

Ron grabs his wand and summons a pair of work gloves. Frowning, he gently tugs the Doxy away from Crookshanks, who meows plaintively, glaring at him with big yellow eyes.

‘Don’t give me that look,’ he says, pointing at Crookshanks with his free hand. ‘You know these are off limits.’

‘He didn’t mean it, did you Crookshanks?’ Hermione says tenderly, cradling the cat in her arms. ‘He was just curious.’

‘I’ll be back,’ says Ron grimly, throwing his legs out of the bed. Clad in an old Canons t-shirt and a pair of tartan boxer shorts, he pads to the bedroom door. Hermione listens as he walks up the rickety stairs to the attic, smiling as she hears him talking to the owls.

‘Yes yes, very exciting. I see you, Puck. Abelard, calm down. Miggs – why are you here? You sleep downstairs!’

She hears the rattle of some owl treats and the creak of the attic door closing.

‘Well, I found out why they were hooting,’ Ron says, when he returns. Crookshanks has taken up residence on his pillow, and Ron sighs as he clambers back into the bed.

He doesn’t even try to move Crookshanks, and simply shifts closer to Hermione’s side of the bed. They lie back together.

‘Crookshanks had gotten in and upended a jar of treats, as well as breaking into the Doxy cage. Thankfully the others were asleep. He’s a menace.’

‘He’s just very curious!’ Hermione protests.

Ron throws her a sceptical look from the other edge of the pillow, but she can see his lips twitching.

‘What time is it anyway?’ Ron asks.

‘Five thirty.’

‘Urgh.’

They lie in silence for a while.

‘I’m quite awake,’ she admits. ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’

‘Make mine a tea,’ he mumbles, burying his face in the pillow with one hand resting on Crookshanks, who is dozing and purring avidly.

Hermione smiles and drops a kiss on his shoulder as she heads for the door. By the time she returns with the drinks, Ron is fast asleep. She pulls the blankets back up around her, makes a note to cast a warming charm on the tea and summons an old favourite book.

She smiles as she reads, the rumble of Ron’s breathing and Crookshanks’ purring making the unexpected early morning surprisingly bearable.


	19. Chapter 19

Breakfast is a peaceful affair on Saturday, after a hectic week for the Minister for Magic.

Hermione sips her coffee as she reads the Muggle newspaper, while Ron has abandoned his tea in favour of a very close reading of the Prophet’s sport pages. Despite the fact that Ginny keeps him updated on things before they are published, he’s still transfixed by the latest fixtures from the local Quidditch leagues and the goings-on of the international teams. Hermione watches him with a smile as he frowns at a particularly caustic description of the latest Chudley Cannons match.

The isolation of lockdown means that the arrival of Hugo’s Scops owl is even more welcome than usual. Hermione jumps to her feet to remove the envelope from Pan’s leg, and Ron looks up.

‘Hugo?’

She beams at him and settles down to read it.

‘C’mon Hermione, share! Or at least read aloud?’ He shifts his chair closer to hers. She clears her throat and starts to read.

_Hi Mum and Dad,_

_Thanks for the owl. Everything is fine here. We’ve moved on from Snargaluff Pods now to Mandrakes, and I don’t have to sit near Eric from Slytherin anymore. I still prefer Potions._

_I told Rose to owl you and she told me to mind my own bloody business (you can’t be annoyed at the swearing Mum, I’m just citing what she said!). She was really good in the last Quidditch match though, you’d have liked it._

_I played Gobstones with Lily yesterday. She got a big package of Honeydukes from her dad. I thought they were supposed to be off sugar but she said that snitching “isn’t a good look for me”. Still, she let me have some Chocolate Frogs and I actually got Uncle Harry which was quite funny. He’s so grumpy in the photo!_

_I hope the lockdown ends soon. Not much has changed here but Hogsmeade trips are banned. I keep seeing the Wheezes owls in the Great Hall. Dad, I don’t know if you know this, but Puck is pretty lethal, he nearly took out James’ girlfriend’s eye with a delivery of Dungbombs._

_I better go. I miss you._

_Love from Hugo_

She looks up and Ron with glittering eyes.

‘I miss him.’ She admits. ‘Rose too.’

‘Me too.’

‘Do you remember when it was us there?’

‘How could I forget? Those were the days.’ Ron muses, idly munching a leftover pastry.

‘Do you ever wish we’d wised up sooner? Had some time together at school, while we were both there, as a couple?’ Hermione asks pensievely, her fingers tracing the writing on the letter.

Ron chews slowly, thinking as he swallows.

‘I think things happened when they were meant to happen,’ he says, with surprising maturity.

She looks at him, eyebrows knitted.

‘Really? No heated snogging in the Common Room? No wistful glances in the Great Hall?’

‘I mean, there were a lot of glances, you just didn’t notice.’

He smirks as her cheeks redden.

‘Hermione, I don’t regret a single thing about how this all happened. Except the bits where we were idiots and we hurt each other. I regret those. But I’m happy. I like that we waited. I like that we got there eventually. And there was that small matter of - oh, what was it again? Oh yes, saving the Wizarding World, that’s it.’

She laughs.

‘Yes, I suppose that did rather hijack everything.’

‘Is this your way of telling me you still have Hogwarts fantasies Hermione?’ Ron raises an eyebrow. She blushes.

‘No! Not – no. Just nostalgia, that’s all.’ She gets up and starts clearing the table in a fluster.

‘I thought we dealt with those in your seventh year…’ he calls out as she throws dishes into the sink. She wheels around to face him, her cheeks burning.

‘Ron! That was ONCE and if anyone ever finds out about that…’

Her gaze flits around the room as though extendable ears are everywhere. He bursts out laughing and walks over to her. Pressing his body gently against hers, he lowers his voice.

‘It was definitely more than once.’

She glares at him.

‘Slander.’

He kisses her softly.

‘Worth it.’


	20. Chapter 20

Fittingly, it’s Ron who intercepts Rose’s owl on Sunday evening. 

He’s waiting for the kettle to boil when he sees a Hogwarts owl appear at the kitchen window. 

Rose had opted not to get her own owl as a pet in first year, asking instead for a really good broomstick. Ron, who had a propensity towards giving his children the world, had been delighted.

‘Hermione!’ He shouts as he makes his way through to the living room. ‘Rose! Owl!’

‘Oooh, wait for me!’

He hears hurried footsteps on the stairs and Hermione bursts into the room with a quill in one hand and a Muggle phone in the other. She quickly casts the phone aside and tucks the quill behind her ear, a habit she has had since Hogwarts that Ron was delighted to discover has led to an almost permanent ink stain just behind her right earlobe.

He collapses on the sofa, feet on the coffee table and Hermione scurries along to sit next to him.

_Hi Mum and Dad,_

_Hugo said you wanted me to owl more - he used that look he gets to guilt me into it. Thank you for the last owl. I know I’ve been quiet but honestly, with Quidditch and all my exam preparation, I don’t have much time for anything - not all of us can have Time-Turners Mum! (In fact, none of us can, thanks to you and Dad and everyone, so in that sense, my silence is a self-inflicted pain.)_

_Quidditch is going really well. We anihilated Ravenclaw in the last match. Their Seeker got in the way of James’ arm when he was reaching for the Snitch - there was blood everywhere. James was ever so sorry but a victory’s a victory, if you ask me. Aunt Ginny agreed._

_I’d like to point out that I don’t have a favourite parent, I love you both equally and this is why you should seriously consider my proposition about getting Hugo adopted by a Muggle family. Honestly, he’s so sensitive, I’m starting to wonder if he’s actually a Granger-Weasley at all. (I don’t actually want him to be adopted. He has his moments - he did get Lily into fantastic trouble about her secret Honeydukes stash, but I think it was an accident)._

_Got to run!_

_Lots of love,_

_Rose x_

_PS: Dad, I don’t know if Hugo said, but Puck’s a liability, you need to get Uncle George to consider retiring him. Sarah’s eye has only just mended and she’s our best Beater so it’s quite urgent actually._

Ron laughs uproariously at Hermione’s scandalised expression.

‘She’s a horror sometimes, you know that?’ Hermione cries in exasperation.

‘Of course she is, she’s ours. What did you expect?’

‘Poor Hugo! He’s so shy Ron, he didn’t meant to get Lily into trouble…’

‘Realistically, it was Harry he got into trouble,’ Ron says, wiping his eyes. He’s having difficulty controlling his giggling.

‘Honestly. She’s Quidditch mad. Thank goodness she’s able to get decent grades with minimal effort - though she really can’t rely on that, not with OWLs and NEWTs on the horizon.’ Hermione looks pained as she rereads the letter.

‘Relax Hermione, she’s winding you up. Neville says she’s as conscientious as you were, and Harry told me she’d owled him about her DADA homework last week.’

Hermione perks up.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

She looks back at the letter.

‘ _Self-inflicted pain_ – honestly Ron! The things we did for these children and all we get is earache about a lack of Time-Turners.’

‘It’s almost as though they didn’t live through a war.’ Ron chides her gently. 

She rolls her eyes and smiles.

‘At least they’re both happy,’ she says, ‘even if their methods are questionable.’

‘Hey, Hugo’s doing fine! Especially if he lived through a Lily tantrum, he’ll only be getting stronger.’

‘And Rose?’

‘Rose is having the time of her life, and we both know she’ll come out of this year with excellent grades and flying colours. You worry too much.’

‘I know.’

‘Gillywater?’

‘I think I need it.’


	21. Chapter 21

‘I can’t do this anymore Hermione.’

She looks up from her paperwork, distracted.

‘Hmm?’

‘I’ve had it. I’m done.’

She squints at her husband, who is standing in the door to her home office with his arms crossed, a look of despair on his face. She sighs and swivels her desk chair around to face him, tucking her quill behind her ear.

‘With what precisely? Because if you say this marriage, I can think of at least one other person who would have an objection to that.’

(‘Harry.’ They say simultaneously, with a nod of understanding.)

‘No, not our lovely marriage,’ Ron says, striding over to stand next to her. He leans against her desk, crossing one foot over the other. She moves the chair a little so that she’s trapped his ankles between hers.

‘What then?’ She asks, half-annoyed at his interruption, and half-pleased to see him.

‘Lockdown.’

She lets out a grunt of frustration.

‘Ron! You know I can’t do anything about that…’

‘Nor do I expect you to. I am simply stating the fact that I am now, officially, fed up.’

‘You were born fed up. Your mum showed me pictures. You had a proper little frown on.’

‘Ha ha. Well, it has come to pass. Ron Weasley has had it.’

‘So what do you intend to do about it?’ She asks, rubbing the back of her hand on her forehead. It’s been a long day.

‘Apparate to the Caribbean. Sneak you away with me. Take up residence in a remote cottage, far away from everyone. Steal Kreacher so that we can have decent food. The kids can go to the Burrow. They’ll be fine there for a bit.’

He looks wistfully out of the window. It’s a dreary day in England.

‘And what would we do in this Caribbean cottage?’ Hermione asks, her lips quirking into a grin.

‘Relive our youth. Live on the beach. Spend our time skinny dipping and f–’

‘RON!’ Hermione interjects swiftly, heat rising to her face. ‘Don’t be crude.’

‘You love it.’

‘Technically, I’m at work so I can’t love it.’

‘That’s not what you said when you were first elected and I came to see you in your office.’

‘I have no idea what you are referring to.’

They’re smiling at each other now and he leans down to kiss her.

‘When do you finish anyway?’

‘In about half an hour. Let me guess, you’re packing the bags already?’

‘No… I’ve gone off the idea. I just remembered that we don’t really need sunshine to relive our youth.’ He waggles his eyebrows at her.

She sighs and swats at him with an envelope from the Ministry. He catches it easily and laughs.

‘I missed you, is all. It’s lonely up in the attic. Plus, I had to have strong words with Puck. You know I hate confrontation.’

‘You’re a softy when it comes to those owls,’ she says, patting him on the leg. 

‘I know it’s not the Carribean but we could watch a film tonight if you want. We could even…’ Hermione hesitates, weighing up something in her mind before continuing. ‘We could even call Harry and Ginny, watch it all together.’

His face lights up. Before he can speak she adds quickly ‘but you can’t talk through the whole thing! Not after last time! That was the first time I’d seen the Bat Bogey Hex since we were teenagers and I don’t care to repeat that experience.’

‘Technically, you can’t hex over the Muggle computer,’ Ron points out.

‘I wouldn’t put it past Ginny to find a way around that,’ Hermione responds, with a grave look on her face. Ron, however, is beaming.

‘I’ll go and ring Harry right now.’

‘You do that, dear.’

He bounds out of the room, the door swinging shut behind him, and Hermione turns her attention back to the less-than-engrossing silver taxation deal she’s been working on with Gringotts.

Suddenly, the Carribean sounds very appealing indeed.


	22. Chapter 22

‘Toss or keep?’

Hermione examines the old blue jumper.

‘Toss. Donation pile.’

Ron obliges by throwing the jumper over onto the modest pile of clothes at the foot of their bed. Hermione pulls out an old maroon t-shirt.

‘Toss or keep?’

‘Urgh. Toss.’ Ron grumbles, watching the t-shirt land gently on the pile.

Ron reaches into the old storage box and draws out the last item, one of Molly Weasley’s many woollen creations. It’s a dark purple colour, with a faded yellow ‘H’ on the chest.

‘Toss or keep?’

‘Keep!’ Hermione says quickly, grabbing the jumper from him and raising it up, inspecting it with a smile.

‘Really?’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘Yes, of course! This was the first one. The Christmas after the war. I’d never had one before.’ She strokes the wool fondly, a look of deep nostalgia in her eyes. Ron watches her with a smile on his face. She folds it neatly and places it on the ‘keep’ pile.

‘Remind me again why we’re doing this?’ He asks, groaning slightly as he opens up the next box.

‘Because it needs done and we’ve run out of other things to do,’ Hermione says firmly. ‘You said yourself you were bored, and I’m not needed at the Ministry today, so the time is nigh.’

He mutters inaudibly, sneezing as the dust rises from the newly-opened lid. His chagrin is short-lived as he lets out a delighted yelp.

He pulls out a tiny, faded Chudley Canons t-shirt with a besotted look in his eye.

‘Rose wore this when she was one,’ he says, beaming.

Hermione’s eyes soften and she rushes over to stand beside him, delving her arm into the box. She pulls out a tiny pair of yellow dungarees.

‘Oh these were so lovely on Hugo,’ she says, holding them up to the light. ‘He was so little. I can still see him, toddling around at the Burrow with Lily.’

‘I thought we’d gotten rid of all of the baby things,’ Ron says, pulling out a small turquoise skirt with a red dragon on it. He sighs as he folds it gently onto the bed.

‘We did - after the big baby debate of 2010. We just kept the sentimental things.’

‘Oh I remember that debate. It was a big one. Well fought on both sides. Amicable conclusion.’ 

Ron hesitates before he speaks again.

‘Do you ever wish we’d done it though? Had another one?’

Hermione looks over at him, a magenta baby blanket in one hand and a small toy elephant in the other.

‘Sometimes. Sometimes I remember how cute they were and how much fun we had…’ she drifts off, a thumb rubbing against the worn trunk of the elephant. She blushes.

‘You were always better with them as babies though. You had the knack. You always looked so handsome and happy. I don’t know how you did it.’

Ron blinks in surprise.

‘Really? I rather thought you were the superior parent. I’ve never seen anyone sterilise a bottle with the efficiency and speed of a sleep-deprived Hermione Granger-Weasley. And you always, always got Rose to sleep when she fussed.’

‘I had two rather distinct advantages in that category,’ Hermione reminds him, gesturing vaguely at her chest. Ron laughs. He sits down on the bed, in between the piles of clothing.

‘Fair.’

Hermione walks over to stand between his legs, looping her arms around his neck.

‘I love our kids, but I don’t think I could have done another one. I think about the cuteness, but then I also think about the -’

‘Demon years?’ Ron suggests, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yes. Those. The tantrums. The accidental magic. The time that they both got crayons stuck up their noses at the same time. The vomiting bugs. The dragonpox. The time they got loose in the Ministry.’

‘The time they got loose in Wheezes. Rose’s knack for swearing in front of my Mum. Hugo’s obsession with picking up every bug in the garden. The sleepless nights. The Lego. The endless Lego…’ He trails off, shuddering slightly. ‘Yeah. Two is good. Two is enough.’

Hermione laughs and nods, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Suddenly, Crookshanks leaps up onto the bed and starts purring, pressing his head persistently into Ron’s elbow. Ron looks at Hermione with his brow furrowed.

‘Then there’s this guy.’ He says, as Crookshanks looks up at him with his yellow eyes. ‘Yes, you.’

‘He loves you!’ Hermione says proudly. ‘Don’t you Crookshanks?’

Both Crookshanks and Ron look at her somewhat dubiously. Ron leans over to scratch behind Crookshanks’ ears.

‘We have an understanding.’

‘Before the lockdown you brought him home his very own piece of tuna from the supermarket for ‘being a handsome boy’ Ron!’

‘Well, what can I say? He’s a fellow redhead and I was feeling benevolent.’

Hermione rolls her eyes.

Ron picks Crookshanks up and looks at her with a gleam in his eye.

‘Toss or keep?’

‘Funnily enough, keep. I’ll keep both of you.’


	23. Chapter 23

It’s around 10pm and Hermione is squinting at the fine print footnotes of a hefty book about Muggle-Wizard relations in the late 1960s. Propped up by two pillows, with Crookshanks asleep on her feet, she hears her husband coming down from the attic, his feet heavy on the stairs. 

She looks up from her book as he pokes his head round the door. He seems tired, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

‘Had to keep the windows closed for some testing - I feel disgusting, gonna shower.’

‘Of course.’ 

She’s a little distracted by how worn he looks as he retreats. It’s been five weeks of lockdown now, and even though they’re getting little bits of magical respite, with Floo calls and limited contact, she can see it’s taking a toll. If she’s honest, she’s feeling it too. She puts a bookmark into the book, unable to focus, and lies back on the pillows, listening to the sounds of the shower.

Ron is quick, however, and is back in the bedroom before even ten minutes have passed. Bringing in a scent of mint and soap, he stands at the foot of the bed, scratching his head absently. 

Hermione takes a moment to appreciate her husband, standing with a towel slung low around his hips. Her eyes are drawn to the faded scars on his arms, where the tendrils of brains once took hold. Her gaze drifts up to his shoulder, where her stomach twists in a familiar way as she takes in the deep scarring of the long ago splinching. She still feels a stab of guilt about that, even now. 

As he lowers his arm and turns to grab some clothes, she lets out a sudden yelp.

‘Ron!’

‘What?!’

‘Your arm!’ 

She pulls herself out of the sheets and shuffles to the end of the bed, taking his left arm in her hands. Crookshanks, having been rudely awoken, flees frm the bedroom, but Hermione hardly notices. Running down the inside of Ron’s forearm is a long, angry scarlet burn, ending in a rough splash mark at his wrist.

‘Oh, crap. Yeah. Forgot about that.’

He sits down on the bed, his eyes bleary.

‘Ron, you can’t just forget about something like that! It looks so painful…’

Hermione jumps up from the bed and rushes through the bathroom. She listens as he calls through from the bedroom.

‘It’s fine, Hermione. A firework went a bit wonky and then I got distracted by Puck dropping another Dungbomb…’

‘I don’t care Ron! You can’t just let yourself be hurt like this. Honestly.’

She reappears with a jar of burn ointment in her hand. Ron is lying back on the bed now, grumbling vaguely, his arm resting out to the side. She sits beside him, pulling his arm gently across her lap. She takes a generous dollop of the ointment, which is orange in colour and smells faintly of apples, and starts to gently rub it into Ron’s arm. 

He mumbles his appreciation, nestling into her hip. 

It only takes a few moments and once she’s done, Hermione screws the lid of the jar back on tightly. Ron sits up, rubbing his eyes.

‘Thanks,’ he says softly.

She turns to face him, running a hand through his hair.

‘It’s never a problem Ron. I hate seeing you hurt.’

‘It’s just a burn, Hermione.’

‘Even so.’ Her hand drifts down to his shoulder, her fingers rubbing the ridges of old scar tissue. He looks at her and smiles sadly.

‘Not your fault.’

‘I know.’

They stare at each other for a moment, lost in memories of things long passed. He pulls her into his arms and she rests her head on his shoulder, breathing in the warm, clean scent. 

Eventually, he pulls back and looks at her. 

Gently, he lifts her hair from her shoulder, exposing her neck. He runs his thumb along the thin scar that remains there. She shivers slightly.

‘Not your fault,’ she tells him, reaching up to grab his hand.

He leans in and brushes his lips across the jagged line, and her heart thrums loud in her throat.

‘I know,’ he says quietly, ‘but it feels that way.’

She shakes her head and pulls him back onto the bed, untangling the sheets and discarding his towel. He’s asleep within moments, his head resting on her chest and Hermione finds herself drawn in by his deep breathing and an overwhelming sense of safety.


	24. Chapter 24

Crookshanks is having a subpar day.

A failed attempt at catching the errant mouse in the garden has ruffled his fur, and he’s still smarting after last week’s revelation that what was living under the garden shed was, in fact, a hedgehog. A disappointing discovery and he still has one sore paw to show for it.

He wanders idly into the house, the back door having been left open by Ron, who is cooking something that smells of fish and seems to require a lot of steaming pans. Crookshanks sniffs the air approvingly, and hops up onto the kitchen table to observe. Ron turns to look at him and, checking briefly over his shoulder, places a small piece of fish on the table for him. 

Crookshanks bows his head in a respectful acknowledgement of this camaraderie, finely honed after years of negotiation, and sets about the tender white fish with gusto, hoping that this will turn the day around for him. 

He listens as Ron whistles to himself, muttering idly about ingredients and rice cooking times. Finishing his treat, Crookshanks drops neatly to the floor and makes his way to the hall, pausing to rub his head on Ron’s ankle in a rare burst of affection. 

He feels he may have been too subtle in his movements however, as Ron stumbles and narrowly misses falling on his rear. 

‘Hermione! That _bloody_ cat!’

Crookshanks makes a hasty exit, reminding himself that it is entirely not his fault that his family have the clumsy, thunderous senses of humans, rather than the honed subtlety of Kneazles and cats. He passes through the living room and heads for the stairs, taking them a little slower than he used to. 

The door to Hermione’s office is open a crack and he pads in, observing her hasty scribbling and the Muggle phone that appears to be bellowing commands at her of its own volition. He waits for her to sit back in her seat before jumping up onto her lap. He presses his face into her stomach and curls himself into a circle.

Aggravatingly, this doesn’t appear to be a good time. With a whispered hiss of ‘not now Crookshanks’ he is unceremoniously deposited from his warm resting place, and he slinks out of the room, the brief respite of fish long forgotten. 

He rallies, and marches to Hugo’s old room, where a soft blanket and patch of late afternoon sunlight serve as his kingdom for an hour or two.

Later that evening, he makes his way back downstairs, a lazy nap having quelled the worst of his ignominy. He can hear the sounds of the television, and their intermittent laughter. 

He creeps quietly into the room and watches them for a moment.

Ron is lying languidly, his feet bare and his hair unkempt. He rests one leg on an old footstool and the other on the floor. One long arm is draped around Hermione, their hands loosely entwined at her shoulder. She is leaning on his chest, eyes sleepy and a smile on her face. 

Her legs are curled under her and Crookshanks cannot help but think, as he watches Hermione look up to kiss her husband softly on the mouth, that her lap looks intoxicatingly warm and inviting. His pride prevents him seeking this out but he is secretly delighted when Ron spots him and nudges Hermione. Her face lights up.

‘Crookshanks! My poor boy, I’m so sorry - what a _horrible_ afternoon.’

It takes Crookshanks a second to realise she’s talking about her own afternoon rather than his incident with the mouse. 

Nonetheless, he moves towards them slowly, determined not to show his hand or his eagerness too quickly. 

Ron is looking at him with slightly narrowed eyes and a barely-suppressed grin.

‘He’s at it, Hermione.’

‘Oh no he’s not, he’s a good boy, aren’t you?’ She pats her lap, inviting him up. 

He jumps up and settles in, appreciating each and every stroke and scratch behind his ears, his purr pouring out of him unwittingly.

‘I’m so sorry I had to put you out earlier - poor Crookshanks. Especially when you’re so handsome!’

Crookshanks cranes his neck to smirk at Ron, who rolls his eyes in response.

‘Yes, well, if the little git hadn’t tried to break my neck earlier I might be feeling a bit more charitable.’

‘Ron! He’s _not_ a git! It was an accident, wasn’t it Crookshanks?’

It was, but Crookshanks would rather not give Ron the satisfaction of knowing this, preferring to hold on to what little mystique he has fostered over the years. He closes his eyes instead, purring into Hermione’s hand. 

It’s not long before he’s fast asleep, but if he’s not mistaken, the last thing he feels is a larger hand giving him a gentle stroke on the head.

Crookshanks is having a better day.


	25. Chapter 25

It’s a bleak day outside, and the patter of the raindrops on the window underpins the dreariness of another day in lockdown.

Ron pushes the door to Hermione’s home office open with his hip, his hands occupied with two steaming mugs of coffee. She barely looks up as he comes in, her brow furrowed as she listens to a loud voice bellowing out of her Muggle phone. 

Undeterred, he sets the mug down on her oak desk, and moves to leave the room, deciding that he’ll come back later. However as he turns, he feels Hermione’s hand on his arm and he stops, catching her eye. 

She holds up one finger, wincing slightly, but indicating for him to stay. The voice on the phone continues on for a moment before stopping suddenly.

Seizing the opportunity, Hermione cuts in.

‘Excellent, well, leave that with me and I’ll get back to you by close of play today Minister.’

Before they can respond, she quickly presses the screen of the phone, ending the call. Ron smiles as she lets out a groan of frustration. She closes her eyes briefly, before squinting up at him.

‘Hello love.’

‘Hey.’

He leans back against her desk, cradling his mug in both hands.

‘Thank you,’ she says gratefully, picking up her mug. ‘I didn’t want you to run away without saying thanks. I like our coffee breaks.’

‘So do I. You’re much better chat than Puck and Abelard. Much less likely to make a mess of your cage too.’

‘Har har.’ 

She kicks his leg lightly with her foot. She has foregone shoes today and her foot is pleasantly warm, Ron notes.

‘Bad day?’ He gestures at the phone. She sighs heavily.

‘Sort of. Just… complicated. People are getting frustrated.’ A shadow of guilt crosses her face. Ron leans down and kisses her on the top of the head.

‘It’s not up to you, love.’

‘I know. It’s just a lot, sometimes.’

‘You’re doing amazingly well,’ Ron says, gently. ‘I’m very proud of you.’

‘You were proud of Puck this morning.’

‘Hey, I can be proud of both of you. Would you like an Owl Treat too?’

‘No you’re okay, thank you. Coffee is fine.’

They sip in companionable silence for a while.

‘How’s work today?’ Hermione asks, stretching her legs out.

‘Alright. Last of the Scotland orders went out this morning and George thinks we’ve got another bulk Ministry order on the way so we’re pushing production. You think the owls are bad - Angelina’s going mental with production happening in their basement. George reckons he’s two explosions away from being kicked out.’

(Hermione decides not to mention the sympathetic texts she has been exchanging with her sister-in-law this morning suggesting various punitive measures for George’s intrusions.)

There’s a tap from the window and they both turn to see Miggs perching on the window ledge. Hermione opens the window and gently pulls the drenched owl in by the scruff of his neck.

‘Oh Miggs! You look half-drowned,’ she says sadly, as she strokes the owl’s head. He hoots sadly, his feathers trembling slightly, dripping water.

‘I’ll take him,’ says Ron, putting out a long finger for Miggs to hop onto. ‘Do you still have the Muggle hairdryer somewhere?’

‘What? Why?’

‘He likes it.’

‘He – what? Ron Weasley, have you been blow drying our owl?’

‘Well, yeah. He doesn’t like the charm, he gets spooked and hides, so we have a system.’ 

He strokes Miggs’ beak affectionately, and the owl chirps. Hermione is flabbergasted. 

Finishing her coffee, she sighs and shakes her head, looking at her husband as he tends to the owl.

‘It’s in the downstairs bathroom.’

‘Brilliant.’ Ron grabs her mug in his spare hand, looping the handle over his fingers where it clanks gently against the other mug. ‘See you at lunch?’

‘I’m sure you will.’

As she settles back into preparation for her next meeting, Hermione hears the drone of the hairdryer coming from the attic, alongside some delighted hoots and a soft-voiced Ron.


	26. Chapter 26

‘Hey, remember that time you slapped Malfoy?’

Hermione looks up from the letter she’s reading at the kitchen table. She raises her eyebrows at Ron, who is currently kneading dough on the counter.

‘Vividly. Why?’

‘I just think about it sometimes. It was brilliant. I think it was a key moment in my realisation of your brilliance, wife.’

‘I’m so glad that one of your fondest memories focusses on Malfoy,’ she replies drily.

‘Bloody hell, no. Just the sound of the slap. And the look on his face.’ 

Ron sighs happily, enthusiastically pummelling the dough. Hermione rolls her eyes, but smiles despite herself.

‘I’ll take it as a compliment then,’ she says, stretching her arms above her head and glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly nine in the evening, and she’s come through to the kitchen to read under the auspices of keeping Ron company. She doesn’t mind.

‘ _You’re brilliant too Ron…_ ’ Ron whispers in a high-pitched voice that makes her laugh.

Hermione pauses. There’s something in Ron’s voice that tells her this is coming from a place deep inside of him. The insecurities that plagued his teenage years have long since faded away, but sometimes there’s a bite of tension there, that tells her he’s seeking some assurance, that something has shaken him. 

She knows it’s been a hard couple of months and that tensions have been high for both of them professionally and personally, navigating the isolation and distance. Her heart squeezes in her chest to think of him hurting.

‘Well,’ she says softly, getting up to stand beside him as he works at the bread, determinedly avoiding her gaze. ‘The slugs were a nice touch.’

He turns his head to look at her, amused.

‘You were perving on me in second year?’

‘NO! Merlin, Ron. It wasn’t like that. Nobody had ever stuck up for me like that before, and it made me feel - I don’t know, warm and secure. You always make me feel like that.’

She rests her head on his shoulder, and feels him relax into her touch.

‘I can assure you it didn’t feel brilliant…’

‘I know. But it was.’ She wraps an arm around his waist.

‘If you want to talk pervy…’ she says softly, ‘fourth year was a tough one.’

‘Yeah?’ 

She can feel him grinning now, his arms still working the dough.

‘Yes. Your hair was particularly soft-looking that year and I think that was when I realised that your smile _did_ things to me.’

‘Yeah, fourth year was a bit of a year for that,’ he says wryly, throwing the dough down one last time. 

He turns to face her, placing his arms on her shoulders, trying to avoid getting dough on her. She breathes in the smell of flour and yeast and Ron.

‘I still think you’re brilliant,’ she says, looking up at him.

‘I still think you’re mental,’ he responds, winking at her.

‘I can live with that.’

‘Good.’


	27. Chapter 27

Ron is stomping downstairs to try and source a sandwich. It has been a busy morning in the attic outpost of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, culminating in an exciting incident in which Puck and Abelard fought over a rogue Decoy Detonator until it exploded. Both owls are now hiding in the rafters, and Ron has spent half an hour with an elaborate set up of Muggle fans and wizard charms to try and rid the attic of the smoke and the smell of burnt feathers.

He pauses outside Hermione’s study. It’s only 11am but he wonders if she would like to join him for a snack. But as he goes to knock on the door, he becomes aware of Hermione talking in what he would call her ‘normal voice’ rather than her ‘Minister voice’. 

He can’t help himself, as he stoops to listen.

‘Oh Fleur, I know. That’s rotten… well, yes, if you give him some time… Poor Vic, she must be mortified.’

Ron’s interest is piqued. He often forgets that Hermione and Fleur have struck up a strong bond over the years, and he’s very intrigued as to what has happened to his eldest niece.

‘No, I’ve not heard from Harry. Ginny owled though - I think Bill was there this morning… you’re so right Fleur, it is male ego isn’t it?’

Ron jumps as a sudden, soft pressure lands on his feet. He looks down to see Crookshanks peering up at him. In his surprise, he thinks he may have hit the door with his head. Sure enough, there’s a padding of feet towards the door, and before he can extricate himself from Crookshanks, Hermione swings the door open, glaring at him.

‘Sorry Fleur, I need to go … of course, any time. Let me know. Okay, take care.’

She pulls the Muggle phone away from her ear, swiping the screen mutinously.

‘Hear anything good?’ Her voice is arch as she slips the phone back into her pocket.

‘Er…’ Ron is stumped. Auror surveillance training did not prepare him for the wrath of his wife. Taking a deep breath, he rallies.

‘I was just walking by to see if you would like a sandwich, dear wife, and I heard Vic’s name and I was simply concerned that my darling niece had gotten herself into trouble, so I thought I’d… gather intelligence.’

‘Gather intelligence? Or be a nosy git?’ Hermione responds, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

‘Probably the latter,’ he admits, sheepish. 

She lets out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sigh and moves away from the door, inviting him into the study. Crookshanks bounds after her and Ron crosses the threshold, making his way to the threadbare armchair that sits in the corner, just in the sightline of Hermione’s desk chair.

‘So are you going to tell me what it is?’ Ron asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. Hermione sits down with a sigh.

‘You’ll probably hear about it from Harry anyway, I suppose. But you mustn’t tell Fleur I told you, Ron, or she’ll probably set one of her ancient French curses on me and I really don’t fancy that.’

‘I don’t either. I promise.’ He sends her what he hopes is a winning smile. She narrows her eyes slightly but continues.

‘To cut a long and impassioned story short, it seems that Victoire and Teddy have not been respecting social distancing guidelines.’

Ron lets out a yell of laughter.

‘Oh really?’

‘Yes. Your brother has been made aware of this - reading between the lines, I think he might have walked in on them - and he’s furious.’

‘But Bill loves Teddy!’

‘I know, we all do. But I’m not sure Bill does right now.’

Ron continues to chuckle, his mirth quite overtaking him. Hermione rolls her eyes.

‘So yes. Victoire is in a state, Bill is absolutely fuming and Fleur is… well, she’s Fleur. She’s actually angry on Vic’s behalf.’

‘You think?’

‘Yes and I agree with her. I think she finds that your brother can be - overprotective.’ Hermione chooses her words delicately.

‘I mean, that’s Bill isn’t it? Head Boy, oldest brother, general bossy git?’

‘Yes, but I do think she’s got a point. You and your brothers all tend to get a bit territorial about things.’

‘Bollocks! Example?’

‘Ginny and Harry. The time Rose asked if we could have Scorpius Malfoy over for dinner. Ginny and Dean. When Teddy and Vic came round for lunch last year. When the Daily Prophet started posting pictures of Ginny as a glamorous Quidditch star. When Viktor -’

‘You had those locked and loaded didn’t you?’ Ron interrupts, partly annoyed and mostly impressed. Hermione smiles innocently.

‘Well, look at it this way Ron - how would you feel if you walked in on Rose and her chosen partner snogging?’

Ron considers this, feeling a surge of inexplicable anger.

‘Rosie would never!’

‘She would and she will, Ron. One day. That’s her choice. We can’t let our feelings get in the way of it. You and I both know there’s no danger for Vic in all of this. They’re just young and in love.’

He blusters a little.

‘How would _you_ feel, Hermione? Would you be okay with Rose doing that?!’

‘If it’s what she wants, then yes. She’s her own person. Just like Vic. Just like Ginny. Just like I am.’

Ron grumbles. Hermione looks at him wryly. He sighs, his shoulders sagging a little.

‘I don’t like the thought of her growing up. Or Hugo, for that matter.’

‘I don’t think Bill does either.’

Hermione’s attention is caught by a Ministry owl arriving at the window. She gets up to let it in and leaves Ron to think for a moment.

‘Have you heard from Harry?’ Hermione asks him, as she settles back down into her seat.

‘I haven’t, no. Bloody hell, I don’t envy him if he’s had the wrath of Bill already today.’

‘I’m sure Ginny kept them in check,’ Hermione says, distractedly reading the contents of the letter.

Ron stands up, his mind back on the sandwich he’s promised himself.

‘You know, I will be okay with whoever Rose decides she wants to be with,’ he says quietly.

‘Even if it’s Scorpius?’ Hermione teases.

‘Urgh. Yes, even if it’s Scorpius. He is, admittedly and inexplicably, a nice kid.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that scenario anyway,’ Hermione says sagely. ‘I think he might be spoken for.’

Ron looks at her quizzically but decides not to pursue this line of enquiry.

‘I know you’ll be okay Ron,’ Hermione says, standing up to hug him. ‘It’s okay to be protective. We just need to let them be themselves too. We were their age once.’

Ron smiles over Hermione’s head.

‘Yeah, we were. We were idiots though, weren’t we?’

‘Idiots who saved the world.’

‘Sounds about right.’

Ron leaves the study and decides that after his sandwich, he might Floo Harry and check he’s still intact.


End file.
